


Elfroot

by TheLynx, Vanny



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Autistic Character, Blood Magic, Borderline Personality Disorder, Eating Disorders, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Kidnapping, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Nonbinary Character, Original Character-centric, Other, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Psychosis, Romance, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Shapeshifting, Spirits, Tourette's Syndrome, Trans Male Character, but it's trans mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLynx/pseuds/TheLynx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanny/pseuds/Vanny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After stopping the Blight, Jack Amell takes some time to himself, going up to the Free Marches. He runs into some trouble before being saved by a pair of wandering Dalish elves and ends up joining them on their journey around southern Thedas. Romance, chaos, and near-death experiences ensue.</p><p>At least they've got plenty of elfroot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friend to Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is the very slightly edited roleplay between TheLynx (< href="http://lynxeon.tumblr.com">lynxeon on tumblr) and Vanny ([j4ckwynand](http://j4ckwynand.tumblr.com/) on tumblr). It primarily features Jack Amell, Mahanon Lavellan, and Cyrnarel Lavellan, and takes place after Awakening ends. Whether or not it will feature events from DA2 or Inquisition is to be determined.
> 
> Some of the content that the fic is tagged for will be graphic.
> 
> This RP is currently ongoing and is over 300k words.
> 
> Zevran and Alistair do not appear until much later in the fic but still have notable roles.

The upside of being a Grey Warden is that even when you're anonymously wandering, no one can claim you're being useless, because the Darkspawn can find you. The downside is that…well, the Darkspawn can find you.

And it's not that Jack can't fend for himself, but even a seasoned warrior can get hemmed in, and…well, he's never been much of a healer.

He's miles from the spot now, not wanting to sleep among the stinking corpses, but he's beginning to flag, and the makeshift bandage he's tied around his leg is half undone, his boot trailing blood into the leaf littler. He knows he's leaving a trail for more mundane enemies than Darkspawn, but he is too pained and tired to do more than plod on until his body forces a halt. He's making no small amount of noise, either, steps uneven and beginning to stagger.

Mahanon learned a long time ago to be wary around humans, but curiosity still gets the best of him sometimes. He avoids the main roads often--a Dalish elf makes a pretty obvious target--preferring to travel through woods when possible and at night when not. Even if all he has is Dalish leather armor, a sword, and a few packs, templars and other unsavory people would be eager to stop him at any point. So when he notices an injured human walking into what he's unofficially and dubiously claimed as his territory for the time being, his ears perk up.

He follows the human for a good ten minutes, thankful for the birds chirping noisily enough to conceal the sounds his tics make. There's no pursuit, just a drying trail of blood, and the fact that some of it does not belong to the human makes him wary. Did the human attack innocents? Was he ambushed? Whatever happened, he's alone and in pain now, but Mahanon is more interested in finding out who he is and where he's headed than helping him for the moment. A least he's not wearing any templar outfits.

In fact, Jack's not dressed dissimilarly to Mahanon himself, also clad in dusty leather (though of human make), with a plain steel sword across his back (as well as an intriguing cloth-wrapped bundle) and a dagger at his waist. As he walks he reaches up to touch a small, golden hoop hanging from his left ear, as though it's a token of luck or strength; his hand then goes to his throat as if there's something there too. Evidently the human feels he needs all the luck he can get.

Even so, he has to rest sometime. And he has to admit he should have done so long before now, but it's so difficult to stop, and to begin something new.

But he trips on the root of a tree and it's begun whether he likes it or not, as he has to catch himself against its trunk so he doesn't go sprawling. And once there he sags against it, breathing harshly.

Mahanon continues watching the human from afar. He considers leaving him there, or perhaps waiting until he's unconscious to help him so that he doesn't see the Dalish, but by then he might have lost too much blood. The leg wound could far too easily get infected.

He could also just knock out the human, but that would either reveal himself as a mage or give the poor thing head trauma.

He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. What would his mothers do? One would go and help the human--the halla keeper and clan Keeper would do the same thing. His other mother would make a quick trap and only encounter the human once he was out and strung up like a rabbit.

Well, the human seems to have neither friends nor enemies following along.

"Oi, shemlen," he says, walking out from his hiding spot. He's behind and to the side of Jack, meaning he'd have to turn his head to see the elf. "Sit down before you kill yourself."

It's safe to say that Jack…overreacts. He flings himself around, smacking his head on the tree trunk in the process, and draws his sword, snarling, "I am prey for no creature!"

It's quite ferocious for someone who looks on the verge of toppling and keeps a white-knuckle grip on the hilt of his sword to keep from dropping it. The world seems to be swaying; perhaps his wound is deeper than he thought.

Mahanon raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, unimpressed. He almost says "Would you like to be stewed or roasted?" but votes against it.

"You're going to fall on your own sword at this rate. Sit. Down."

Oh. It's. That's. It's--an Elf. Which doesn't necessarily mean he's safe, but does make his imminent death somewhat less likely. The words themselves take a little longer to reach him, but when they do--

Still holding his sword out in front of him, he slides down the tree trunk into an awkward crouch, and from there falls into a seated position, still watching Mahanon suspiciously.

From here, he's looking _up_ at Mahanon through a short cowlick of dark hair. His eyes are brown too, deep-set in a rather heavy-featured face. A small red mark is forming on his forehead from where he struck the tree.

Mahanon unfolds his arms and walks towards Jack. He probably looks terribly intimidating: Blood red hair down to the middle of his neck, earthy red vallaslin covering his face, his face all hard lines and his armor distinctly elven. His green eyes might seem nice in contrast, but most humans found the eyeshine unnerving. That the human seems relieved to see a Dalish elf must mean he was expecting something a bit more terrifying.

He kneels down next to the human, reaching to take the boot off of the injured leg. Mahanon is too close for sword-range now, so Jack supposes he must not be about to stab him; he drops the sword, but when the elf reaches out to touch him, he jerks back, eyes ringed in white like a dog's.

Mahanon lets out a frustrated sigh. "Remove your boot and cut off the bottom half of your pants on this leg. I'm going to clean, stitch, and bandage your wound." It would be less painful to use healing magics to aid him along, but he's not going to risk revealing to this human that he's a mage, not with the reactions he's getting. "I'm not going to eat you or use blood magic or anything."

Jack half-flicks one eyebrow. 'One of my best friends was a blood mage' does not seem a wise thing to say, but he still thinks it. Still moving with slow caution, and still watching Mahanon, he leans forward and begins to unfasten his boot.

"Ran out of poultice," he grunts by way of explanation, voice harsh and a little rusty. "Should've made more. Didn't. Stupid!"

Mahanon lets out a low whistle as he sees the wound, followed by a series of chirps. "Doesn't matter, that thing needs closing first. What even got you? Looks worse than a mabari bite."

"Darkspawn. K--" He frowns, then repeats, "Darkspawn."

Mahanon frowns at him with pity. Poor guy is probably dying already, unless he was lucky enough to not catch the taint. "Pants," he reminds him. "Need the fabric off your wound."

At least elfroot and thread are plentiful and cheap enough that helping him out wouldn't seem like a waste. He pulled a pair of gloves from one of his packs and put them on, not wanting any darkspawn blood on his skin.

"Pants," Jack repeats. It's not exactly mimicry but it's nearly identical to the precise stress Mahanon put on the word. He draws his dagger--careful to keep the hilt toward Mahanon--and begins to cut away at the fabric, teeth bared with effort. Mahanon waits patiently, pulling out a waterskin, a small box, a small jar, and a small bottle. He places them next to him, not bothering to appear terribly unthreatening but making sure his hands are almost always visible.

With a tearing sound, Jack manages to get the remainder of the fabric stripped away from the wound (with a hiss as the fibers pull away from the sticky blood). Then he says it again: "Pants."

"Water," Mahanon says, waving the water skin in front of him. "Got it? Yeah? I can wash and stitch you now, shem?"

Jack’s eyes follow the skin. "Can wash and stitch you now," he agrees.

"Good." Mahanon nods and starts to care for the wound, slowly but expertly closing it.

Jack doesn't make a sound, but his teeth remain bared and he's painfully tense from the pain, nearly trembling. In an effort to distract himself, he tucks his thumbs inside his fists and squeezes tight, hoping it will be over soon. Once the wound is sealed, the elf nods to himself and puts the sewing supplies away, then takes the jar next to him and starts rubbing elfroot salve on it, the bitter scent wafting up into the air. He's not as gentle as he could be, but he takes care not to aggravate the wound too much.

He seals the jar and holds the small bottle out to the human. "This one's a healing potion," he says.

Jack  releases his thumbs to take the bottle, uncork it, and smell it. The recipe isn't the same as his, but it's not unfamiliar either, and he actually smiles a little.

Mahanon sighs in relief; he thought Jack might just pour out the liquid or something. He stands up, stretching. "You need my help getting to..." He frowns. The nearest city is hours away at least. "You want to stay at my camp?"

Jack might get caught by wolves or something if left alone. Between that and the blight, Mahanon's not sure which is worse, but better to be afforded some sort of choice.

Jack squints, and carefully puts the potion bottle down. It's a bit of a gamble--not everyone understands Hand-speech, and even fewer the Fereldan variant, but it's worth a try.

"[You _want_ me to stay at your camp?]" he signs.

Mahanon doesn't catch all of that, but he knows some hands-speech. The Dalish don't really have an elven signed language, but they sign slightly different from others due to how closed-off they are. Thankfully, he grew up in Ferelden with his clan, which only recently moved to Orlais a few years ago.

He catches enough to get the gist of it, though. "[Yes]," he signs, lowering his hands quickly as his fingers twitch.

"Do you understand the common tongue clearly?" he asks aloud. He could try signing if necessary, but he prefers to speak, as he can control his voice better than his hands.

"Yes," Jack replies, as that's easy enough to say aloud. "Only thick-tongued."

Mahanon shakes his head. "I don't need you to speak it, I just wanted to know if you can understand me. I can read your hands somewhat." He shrugs. "But since you can understand it, yes. I helped you, I'd rather wolves not undo all my hard work."

"Twisted creatures," he says aloud, and signs "[I will come, then.]"

"Do you need to lean on me, or can you walk?"

"[Cut me a stick?]"

"A walking stick? Sure, I can do that, I suppose."

Mahanon glances around and wanders off, leaving Jack alone as he searches for an adequate stick.

Jack for his part, drinks his potion and attempts to neaten up a bit, running his fingers back through his sweat-stiff hair and tugging at his armor. His boot stays off, though; there's a little swelling and he doesn't think it will fit.

Mahanon returns before too long with a stick a bit taller than he is and absent his previously bloody gloves, frowning at the human's bare foot. "Boot on, shem. Keeps the swelling down."

"Hurts," Jack grumbles, but reaches for his boot. He knows what Wynne would say, too--'boot on, Jack.'

Getting it on is a struggle and this time he does whimper a little but he manages to get it over his foot and loosely buckled. This done, he reaches for the stick, and between that and the tree gets upright.

Mahanon leads the way to his camp, setting a slow pace, walking far enough ahead of Jack to lead but still somewhat beside him to keep him in sight. It's only a little over a mile away.

"My name's Mahanon," he offers by way of introduction. He doesn't expect much from Jack, since his hands are a bit occupied with the stick and he doesn't seem to talk much, but leaves some time for a reply anyway.

That one is easy enough; Jack's introduced himself many times, always simply. He has titles now: Warden-Commander, Arl of Amaranthine, Hero, but those words almost never enter his mouth.

"I'm Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack." Mahanon still worried about the human dying on him, but if he's still well enough to talk, that's a good sign.

"There's another Dalish with me back at camp: Cyrnarel. They're..." Well, he was about to say that they're friendly, but probably not. "They're a good person and won't hurt you even if they seem rude." Better to inform Jack now before he got startled and tried to run off.

Jack thinks about this a moment, then says, "Shem," by way of agreement. The Dalish are often prickly in his experience, and for good reason.

Mahanon lets out a chuckle, caught by surprise at the comment. "Yeah. At least you're not a templar."

They reach camp before long, which is set up in a small clearing surrounded by trees. There's a single tent and a fire, over which sits a pot which smells of stew. Cyrnarel, who was chopping bits of carrot off into the stew a moment ago, pauses to look up with a scowl. He points at Jack with his knife, holding half a carrot in his left hand.

"The fuck is he doing here?" he asks, sounding mildly annoyed.

He's wearing a plain shirt and leather pants with only a few things attached to his belt, with other objects presumably inside the tent. Scars crisscross over every inch of his brown arms and deep green vallaslin decorates his face. He's skinnier than Mahanon and over a foot shorter than Jack, and his deep brown hair is unbrushed. His eyes are a bright cyan.

Jack halts, although having been warned, he doesn't start. He does not much like having edged weaponry pointed at him, but it is what it is.

He'd like to say something conciliatory, but that can make things worse, and he can't think of anything to begin with. So he says the most neutral thing he can think of: his name.

"I'm Jack."

Cyrnarel narrows his eyes. "Didn't ask you, shem."

"He's my new friend," Mahanon says cheerily, a grin on his face. "Jack, this is Cyrnarel. Cyrn, this is Jack."

Cyrnarel slowly returns to slicing the carrot. "So long as I don't have to hear you two fucking, fine."

Jack's hand goes to his earring, and he blinks long and slow. He ought to be blushing up to the ears but maybe he's lost too much blood.

At a loss, he clears his throat and looks at Mahanon, a little desperately.

"I think that's a no," Mahanon says to Cyrnarel. "Although it looks like we only have the one tent between us."

"I'm not sleeping with him," Cyrnarel says, dropping the rest of the carrot into the stew. He pauses and scowls more. "I'm not sleeping in the same tent as him. I'm not sleeping with an armed shem at the camp anyway."

"He's injured and both of us are light sleepers. We'll be fine. Jack, sit down, you've lost a lot of blood." Obedient as ever, Jack cautiously lowers himself to the ground, using his stick to keep from falling, though he winces when weight lands on his bad leg.

Once he's down, and his hands are free, he signs, "[I will sleep on the ground.]" Not liking the tension he's feeling in the air, he unbuckles his sword and dagger and tosses them, still sheathed, in the dirt and a little away from him. The cloth-wrapped bundle remains on his back, though.

"Creepy shit, isn't he?" Cyrnarel comments. He relaxes a little by the obedience shown by the human and the fact that he is now the taller of the two, but frowns disapprovingly when Mahanon fills a bowl with stew and hands it to Jack. "You didn't just heal his wound, did you?"

"[Not with magic,]" Mahanon assures him in elvish. "[Just mundane tools.]"

"You make the worst decisions."

Jack knows how he looks to strangers, but he's spent so much time with people who know and understand him now that it stings all over again.

Trying to ignore the conversation--which is very clearly about him despite being in a language he knows only a few words of--he concentrates on his stew. He's nearly always hungry, but it doesn't go down so easily. His head is buzzy and his stomach rolls, but he manages most of it anyway.

* * *

Once the stew is gone and the pot cleaned, Cyrnarel announces their intent to sleep. "Lucky for you, shem, it's not going to rain. But if you pull any shit tonight, you're dead. Got it?"

" _Vhenan_ ," Mahanon said disapprovingly. He couldn't fault Cyrn for not liking humans, but Jack seemed pretty harmless.

ack sighs. It's not that he can't deal with prickly folk; he's dealt with many. It's just that he's too tired and in too much pain to do the dance.

"Got it," he says flatly.

Mahanon sits down about a foot away from Jack as Cyrnarel disappears into the tent. "Will you be alright overnight? Do you need elfroot?" He signs the words as he says them, though he's not sure how well Jack can see in the dim light.

"[I'll be fine. I've had worse.]" But then again mortal wounds may be healed by a witch, and small ones may fester and kill. There's no way of knowing, really.

He thinks about this, running his tongue along the edges of his teeth, then looks up at Mahanon again. "[If I die--]"

Mahanon presses his lips together. He's not sure if he'd use magic to save this human, but even that couldn't stop the blight. "You don't look like you've caught the taint," he says and signs. "You'll probably be fine."

Jack snorts suddenly. "[I haven't, but that is not the only way for a wound to go bad.]"

Mahanon isn't sure what's funny about that. Maybe it's a human thing. "It's nothing that will kill you overnight."

"[Even so.] Please?"

Mahanon nods for him to go on with his request.

Jack chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, knowing that even to ask is an imposition. Is asking strangers to take risks for him. And there's no guarantee they'll actually do it. But he can't bear the thought of Alistair not knowing.

"[Have my things sent to Amaranthine.]"

The elf tilts his head curiously. "Sure." He doesn't know much of Amaranthine but that it's a coastal city in Ferelden. At least, he thinks it is. "But you'll be fine in the morning."

He stands, dusting off his pants. "I should sleep too. Mythal watch over you, falon," he says.

"[You as well,]" Jack signs, fumbling a little. He's not sure if it's appropriate to return an elven blessing, but he certainly wouldn't wish the _Maker_ to watch over him.

Mahanon smiles in response retreats to the tent for the night.

Jack rarely sleeps through the night. The blight may be over, but the archdemon isn't the only thing that haunts his dreams. Mostly he snatches a few hours here and there and then gets up to watch the stars, or pick at spells, or make poultices.

Tonight is different. He's had a long hard slog, and lost a deal of blood, and for once his body calls a halt. He sleeps heavily most of the night, wrapped tight in his bedroll, Spellweaver in its wrappings by his head.

He half-wakes a few hours before dawn, suddenly cold and foggy-headed, his leg throbbing painfully. He registers faintly that he ought to do something about that, and drifts back into an uneasy feverish sleep.

This time, he is not without dreams.

Mahanon wakes up not long before dawn, leaving Cyrnarel sleeping alone as he slips out of the tent silently, dressed in light clothes without shoes or his binder. He spares a glance for the human he rescued, brow furrowing in concern. The poor thing looks feverish.

He could wake Jack, have him drink some water and potion...

Or he could heal the deepest parts of Jack's wound without waking him. He seems like a heavy sleeper, at least.

He decides on the latter, gently untangling the injured limb from the bedroll. Jack makes a groaning sound but otherwise doesn't stir. His leg is swollen, the skin tight and red around the stitches, and the skin there is hot to the touch.

He's removed both his armor and his boots, but he hasn't stripped to his small clothes to sleep; he's wearing simple clothing, well-made and a little travel-worn.

Mahanon winces at the wound. Probably infected. He'll have to ask Cyrnarel to make a salve for that later. At least there's no signs of blight sickness.

He gently places his hands above the wound, just far enough away from the skin to not be felt, and starts channeling his magic. He's never been a great healer, but he can heal the deepest parts of the wound, at least.

The sensation draws Jack back out of sleep; Mahanon hasn't touched him, but he can feel the flesh of his leg knitting together deep down in the muscle, and the sensation is…unsettling to say the least.

Far from clear-headed, he bolts upright with a loud cry and reaches for the first thing he can get hold of: Mahanon's hair.

Mahanon yelps and his magic lashes out before fizzling, accidentally cauterizing one end of the wound.

In his panic, he figures he has two options: Burn the human to a crisp or appear as unthreatening as possible and hope for the best. He tries for the second, staying as still and silent as possible but prepared to call on his magic the moment he needs to defend himself.

In his panic and pain, Jack clenches tighter for a moment, and the smell of scorched flesh rises into the air. When he smells it, he lets go of Mahanon all at once--actually shoving him away from himself--and scrambles back, still entangled in his bedroll, and lets out a truly appalling sound, a groan rising nearly into a howl.

Mahanon stays where he is, kneeling on the ground, and lowers his hands onto his knees, palms up. He'd like to calm the human down and explain what was going on, but approaching him might just cause more problems.

He thinks about fleeing but dismisses the thought immediately. Cyrnarel's still asleep, somehow. But neither does he want to fight Jack, and since Jack seems currently uninterested in the tent, there's no reason to attack him right away.

He's not exactly sure how to explain that he's an apostate, though. _"Hi, I'm a Dalish apostate who was casting magic on you in your sleep, nice to meet you!"_ is not something that inspires trust and confidence.

Fortunately Jack doesn't seem intent on attacking him, either. His aim seems to be more to get away. He settles a little at a safe distance, still making a deal of noise, but ragged and through his teeth now, as though he'd like to hold it back and simply can't.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Mahanon says, making sure to keep his voice level. Better to be straightforward in this situation than risk being accused of lying. After all, the burn on Jack's leg clearly indicates that he's a mage. "I was attempting to heal your wound with magic, and then you startled me."

He hesitates, then adds: "If you want to leave, head directly north. Starkhaven's that way."

"Shh!" Jack claps his hands over his ears. Too many words.

Mahanon stops talking, still sitting where he is. He doesn't want to startle Jack, so he waits patiently for him to calm down.

It takes a few minutes, but the ragged sounds are eventually replaced by simple weeping, and then at last Jack seems able to breathe again.

He unbends a bit, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve and avoiding Mahanon's gaze.

Mahanon's still not sure whether to wake Cyrn up and run or offer help to Jack, so he continues to sit and wait. He's got a lot of patience.

"Sorry," Jack mumbles thickly, through his sleeve.

"I was trying to heal you," Mahanon says again, slowly and tentatively. "Is there a problem? Other than my... ah, mishap."

Jack shakes his head, shoulders slumping. Now that he's beginning to come down again, he can feel the chills creeping back up his spine.

"I--get dreams."

"Bad dreams aren't very fun, are they?"

Mahanon is fairly certain at this point that he's not going to be attacked again. "Can I heal you? Or at least give you a salve? Or do you want us to leave?"

"You can." A pause while Jack untangles himself and scoots back toward Mahanon, eyes wet and red. "…Thank you."

Maybe Mahanon should have woken him first, but…he was trying to help. Jack knows that much.

"Alright." Mahanon's still nervous, but more alert this time and ready to defend himself if necessary. "You... you know I'm an apostate, right?" He mentioned magic a few minutes ago, but better to clarify than suddenly get punched in the face. His scalp still stings from Jack grabbing his hair.

"No." Well. That's not very clear. "[Only to templars, but it's a lie. Dalish mages have a place. Not runaways from anything.]"

Mahanon blinks--that's definitely not the reaction he expected. He lets himself relax and returns to healing the deepest parts of the wound. Thankfully Jack's fumbling only irritated it and didn't pull apart the stitches.

"That still makes me an apostate," he says as the magic flows through him. "I have my place, but I still don't behave in accordance with Chantry law. You're not afraid of me?"

Now that Jack's prepared for the feeling, he can bear it more easily, though he does tense, jaw clenching and fingers crooked.

"No."

"Suppose with your size, you're not afraid of much." Big guy with a sword--Mahanon wouldn't have even approached him had he not been almost dying. "How does someone like you run into darkspawn alone, anyway? You a fugitive or something?"

"No."

He might feel like one, but he has every right to be where he is. He might be able to get away with explaining about the Wardens, but the words are hard to reach even with his hands, so instead he says something he once said to Wynne as a joke, though once it's in his throat it comes out as though he believes it.

"I'm looking for griffins."

Mahanon stares at him blankly, then shrugs. Fugitive then.

He's healed the wound as much as he can, and though it looks the same it should ache less and heal faster. He pulls out the same jar of elfroot salve he had yesterday and begins to apply it. "We're actually headed west, across the Marches. You can come along if you'd like."

"Like fuck he is," Cyrnarel snarls, sticking their head and bare shoulders out of the tent. They haven't put forth the effort to lift themselves up and are therefore lying on their chest, chin on their hands, which are crossed on the ground in front of them. Their hair is a complete mess and they're blinking blearily in the dawn light. "Kill him or ditch him, we're not bringing him with us."

Jack flinches a little at the sudden appearance of the second elf, wondering guiltily if he witnessed or heard anything that happened earlier. He's been called creepy once already.

"Don't kill him," he says worriedly.

"[Don't scare him, Cyrn, he's a runaway or something,]" Mahanon says in elvish. "[Doesn't have a problem with apostates either.]" While most of the words actually are elvish, he has to borrow apostates from the common tongue.

"He's a giant shem, what do you want him for? [How the fuck does he know you're a mage?]"

Mahanon replaces the cap on the salve jar. "Lath, the last time we went into a city you nearly got skewered by a templar. If nothing else, you can at least admit he could help us out a bit in cities." He looks at Jack again. "That is, if you want to come with us. Cyrn's more bark than bite, they won't hurt you."

Cyrnarel mutters something darkly under their breath.

"[I don't normally go where I'm not wanted,]" Jack signs.

This is sort of a lie. He has been many places he wasn't wanted, but if left to his own devices, he would never have gone to them.

"Well, it's a good thing we're friends then, isn't it?" Mahanon says cheerily. Cyrnarel groans and pulls themself back into the tent. "I'd very much like to have you along."

"[But they would not.]" Jack looks from Mahanon to the closed tent flap. "[I do know cities. Spent time in Denerim. Amaranthine.]"

"[They'll be fine,]" Mahanon signs. "[They just take a while to warm up to shemlen. Humans,]" he corrects quickly, figuring Jack probably didn't know the elvish sign. "We could use a human along, anyway. Makes us look less suspicious." He's curious as to what Jack is running from, but doesn't pry. He hasn't even mentioned why they're traveling in the first place anyway.

Jack half smiles. "[Like a bodyguard. And I am not afraid of templars.]"

Maybe he should be. A good deal of his physical strength comes from the fade. But he's worked with Sten and Alistair often enough, and Spellweaver has a sharp enough edge to suit even if they block his magic.

Mahanon grins. "That's certainly helpful."

He stands and stretches, walking over to the tent. "You and Cyrn should get a start on the road once our stuff is packed. Or, well, traveling, since we don't use the roads. Since you're injured, that means we'll have to move slowly, so I'll stay behind and catch up to you two with food in a couple hours. Trust me, they won't hurt you."

"I am a mage."

There's no good lead-up to it, really. It just feels relevant. And fair, given that Mahanon has revealed himself already.

"From Kinloch Hold, at Lake Calenhad, in Ferelden."

Mahanon stops, looks back at Jack, and walks over to him. He awkwardly pats him on the shoulder. "Okay." Usually he's not caught so off-guard like this, so he doesn't have much to say, but he realizes that Jack is probably also an apostate. "Cyrn won't mind."

"I fucking will mind," Cyrn mumbles as they exit the tent, fully clothed and with a leather jacket on, but the words are half-hearted. They don't even know what they're responding to, as they missed that part of the conversation. They start taking down the tent and Mahanon rushes over to help them. "I'll hunt while you two go on ahead, yeah?" He's agitated to some extent about the situation.

"No, you'll be going ahead and making friends with Jack."

"Ah," Jack says, and begins to roll up his own things. He's off-balance enough with fever that it's going to take some time to buckle on all his armor, which should give the elves time to hash it out.

He hums while he works.

Once everything's packed away, Mahanon approaches Jack again. "Here," he says, holding out two small vials in one hand. "The health potion will keep your leg healing well and reduce the pain, and the other will help with infection."

"Thank you," he says politely. It sounds wooden, very much a rote response, but nevertheless, he means it.

Mahanon nods and takes off, leaving Cyrnarel and Jack together, Cyrnarel carrying a number of packs and two daggers on their back. Unlike last night, when they wore simple clothes, they now wear a full set of light leather armor with a number of filled pockets and lots of pouches and tools strapped to their belts.

"Right, shem," they say. "We're moving. I won't kill you, but don't make any sudden movements." They gesture to Jack to head west, not wanting to bare their back to him, and they maintain a safe distance from him.

Jack gives them a baleful look, as if to say: do I _look_ as if I'm about to make sudden movements?

Luckily he still has his walking stick from the previous evening to help him along. He gets upright, quickly checking himself to make sure he has everything; after a moment's thought he decides to let his necklaces hang outside his breastplate, for comfort: an unmarked locket made from silverite rather than gold or silver, a small amulet, and what looks like a vial of dark blood sealed with a blob of silver.

This done he touches his earring once more, and sets off. He doesn't think he'll find a knife in his back, but staying behind him will be a trial given it's difficult to break a path when limping and fevered.

Cyrnarel follows about two feet behind the human, verbally directing him with clipped words when he moves in the wrong direction and offering no extra conversation. They're not too keen on having him along--he's large, human, slow, and noisy. That makes for difficult stealth movement, and if something bad were to happen, they'd have to either abandon Jack or risk themself to save him. Mahanon would be less than happy if they abandoned Jack.

The path they follow wouldn't make much sense to one not familiar with forests. There aren't any markers to guide them along and there is no visible road, but it keeps them moving west while staying deep enough within the forest to avoid most danger.

Jack takes direction well enough and while his injury makes him clumsy, he's not completely useless along a woodland path, and never seems actively confused by the directions.

And while there's no conversation to speak of, he eventually begins to talk--very softly--to himself, almost a sort of marching chant:

"Black touch yellow, kills a fellow; red touch black, a friend to Jack."

Cyrnarel is pretty sure Jack had his colors off there, but that doesn't faze them. What does he care if the human gets himself killed for it?

But if they converse with him, at least they won't have to deal with Jack's muttering.

"You got templars on your trail, shem?"

He stops talking to himself and looks up, though he's accustomed enough to traveling with companions to know that he shouldn't _stop walking_ when someone asks a question.

"No."

"Then what the hell sort of mage are you?" If Jack had been a circle mage, he should be an apostate, right? Cyrnarel was not happy with this bit of news. "What are you up here for then?"

Jack ought to be honest, he supposes. They've been kind enough to have him along. Cyrnarel could have led him into a ditch long ago and despite his obvious dislike he hasn't done it.

He pauses, marshaling his words; can't sign with a stick in one's hand.

"The Grey kind."

"You're a shem, not a qunari," Cyrnarel says. They're not sure if Jack is mocking them or not, and they move a bit closer to him to see his face better. They're more confused than angry for the moment. "The fuck is a gray mage?"

Jack looks briefly to the heavens (or the canopy).

"Grey _Warden_."

Cyrnarel snorts. "Right, like I'm going to believe that. You're Fereldan, yeah? Barely any Wardens down there right now." They don't know why Jack would lie, though, unless...

"Shit, you're a deserter, aren't you?" They don't know much about the Wardens, but they know you technically can't quit. "At least they probably can't spare people to track you down, right? Unless you killed someone. Can't blame you for leaving though, seems like life can be a bit awful with the Wardens."

Jack huffs through his nose. "Not a deserter."

Feels like it a little, though. But Maker knows he's earned a little wandering.

Cyrnarel wants to argue, but thinks better of it--at this point it's just arguing for the sake of arguing. Jack seems to be put off at the thought of being a deserter.

"Then how'd you leave the Wardens? Travel on your own? Did the rest of them die or some shit?" They're no longer hostile in favor of curiosity.

His mouth sets into a line, and his brows--already perpetually worried-looking--draw in.

"All but two dead at Ostagar. But we rebuild."

Cyrnarel's expression softens. "I'm sorry. That must have been difficult." The name 'Ostagar' rings some bells in their head, but they can't quite link it to anything. Probably something Mahanon knows about--he's always going on about things happening in the world. Creators know Cyrnarel could care more about outsiders. "I'm sorry for your loss."

They're still not sure why Jack is here, but they're a little too uncomfortable with the whole death topic to ask again.

"Mm." Sorry is not what he expected to hear from the temperamental elf. He's not sure what to make of it.  The fingers of his free hand flick, down by his leg.

"I know walking songs. Real ones." That is, not rhymes about snakes.

"Keep them to yourself," Cyrnarel says, a little bit of bite returning to their words. They could do without shemlen things.

Jack shrugs. He'd simply thought to offer a change in topic. And it had worked, in a way. He is content to be silent, or nearly so. He still flicks a rhythm with his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later on, Mahanon's tics and Jack's stims will be written less frequently, but they are almost always there, just assumed instead of written. Cyrnarel uses "he" and "they" pronouns interchangeably and does not have an explicit gender.
> 
> Both authors are aware that sign language does not quite work like that and has different grammar than spoken language.


	2. Not Rich-Rich

"I hate shemlen," Cyrnarel growls quietly as the group of three approaches a city's front entrance a week later. There's guards at the entrance--not templars, just regular guards--but no doubt they will be just as awful to them, especially considering how they're visibly armed.

Mahanon gives them a sympathetic glance.

Jack squares his shoulders and makes the effort to still his fingers, humming a little under his breath to loosen his tongue.

He's never had too much trouble with guards, as long as he carried no visible sign of being a mage, but he's been around with Zevran often enough to know these are times that often require him to run interference.

Subtly, he steps a little more ahead of the two, ensuring that he is the first to greet the guard.

Mahanon and Cyrnarel gladly let Jack take the lead, neither eager to chat with the guards. A few humans pass into the city without issue, but they don't expect the same treatment for them.

Mahanon once suggested that they cover their vallaslin, but then any makeup would be noticeable, and Cyrnarel was completely opposed to hiding their vallaslin in the first place. At least they hadn't ever been imprisoned before, only turned away.

As predicted, the guards hardly react to Jack at all. But when the elves approach the gate, one of the guards frowns, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Hold up, now. What do you two want here?"

Jack draws up to a halt, trying to look less ill than he feels, and says "With me." It's not a challenge, not exactly. The tone is neutral, but there is steel there.

Cyrnarel bites back a scowl and, thankfully, Mahanon speaks for them. "We work for him," he says with a forced smile, patting one of the packs on his back to indicate that he was carrying it for Jack. Cyrnarel's not happy with the idea, but carefully keeps their face blank and just nods.

Jack glances just slightly at Mahanon. That hadn't been his plan, but it is maybe the easiest story to play off. He attempts to arrange his face into what he imagines a rich man might look like if a guardsman questioned his servants.

He's not the worst actor in the world but he's certainly not the best. He goes from faintly worried-looking, to faintly worried and sneering a bit. "Is that all," he says, with a cadence to his voice that is not quite his own, "or will you continue asking stupid questions?"

Spending time with the Amaranthine nobility had its uses after all, it would seem.

The guard doesn't look entirely satisfied, though. Jack isn't dressed like a man with servants; he's just as dusty and travel-worn as they are, and there's just something…off about how he moves.

"Is that so? And what brings you to our fair city?"

Mahanon shifts on his feet impatiently, glancing at the sky. "My lord," he whispers, loud enough to be overheard without being obvious, "the meeting will start in an hour."

"You will let us pass, now? Or--must I speak to your superior?" It's hard not to halt, but he does his best. His hands are stiff and still at his sides, but the tension is easily mistaken for anger.

The bluff works. The other guard, who had been silent until now, yawns and says, "Give it a rest, Sy."

"I beg your pardon, my Lord," the first guard--Sy--says, and though he appears only slightly mollified, it's clear he won't question them further.

They enter the city safely, the elves breathing a sigh of relief once they're a fair distance away from the guards.

"I hate shemlen," Cyrnarel mutters again.

Mahanon reaches up to squeeze Jack's shoulder. "Ma serannas," he says. "Now we just need a place to stay."

"Gonna be some sort of shithole." They don't have a lot of money with them--it's mostly for supplies--but a night in a bed would be a nice change. Cyrnarel glares at Jack. "You got coin, shem?"

Jack's relief is of a different kind, but he still slumps a little at the shoulders once they're out of sight of the gates. It's hard to call up that many words at once, let alone adapt to a lie as it comes.

"[Enough,]" he signs to Cyrnarel, "[For someplace without fleas.]"

"More than we've got, then." Cyrnarel's not sure they can definitely get a place without fleas. "Market first, inns later." They pick at their jacket distastefully. It's fraying at the bottom, but mostly they need leather to patch it up and a new shirt. A few rare herbs for potions and poisons won't go amiss either.

They scowl as they hear a Chanter's words float down towards them.

If Mahanon is paying attention, he'll catch the two of them wearing nearly identical expressions; evidently Jack has no more interest in listening to the Chant than Cyrnarel is.

But he does have his own shopping list. Cyrnarel may be dismayed to discover that Jack is also on the hunt for herbs and flasks.

Cyrnarel and Mahanon split up once they reach the market district, Mahanon heading off to seek out provisions and seasonings while Cyrnarel heads towards a visible stall selling all sorts of alchemical supplies. Not that they'd be marketed as such, with the Circle frowning on alchemy, but Cyrn knows what to look for. It helps that the merchant is probably amiable towards Dalish elves--a customer's a customer.

They look suspiciously at Jack as they wander over, but otherwise pay him little attention except to keep him in sight.

Jack gives them a little smile, but looks away quickly lest he invite a sharp remark. He seems to be collecting an assortment of odds and ends: in addition to potion supplies, he's got a length of silk ribbon wound around his hand, and a tiny stone figure of a nug peeking its head out of a pocket in his pack.

Cyrnarel gathers a number of herbs, wrapping them carefully in cloth and stowing them away in specific pouches. They pay the merchant and then look around the market, figuring someone selling leather and cloth must be around the corner, since they're not here.

There's a small ironbark ring resting against their chest, attacked to a leather cord serving as a necklace. Usually it's tucked behind their shirt, but it's slipped out today.

Jack touches his own locket, and decides to risk it. "[That's pretty.]"

Cyrnarel tilts their head in confusion, almost having missed Jack signing. "[What?]" they sign. Their signing is more precise than Mahanon's, as their hands are steadier.

Jack taps his own locket to indicate what he means, but there's a hesitation to it; now he's thinking he wasn't supposed to see it at all.

Cyrnarel reaches their hand up to the necklace, mouth opening in an 'o' shape as they realize it's showing. They tuck it back under their shirt. They're mildly annoyed, which shows on their face, but they say nothing. It's not that they want to hide it, but humans know the value of ironbark and might want to take it from them, and the fact that people will see it and assume (or ignore) its significance bothers the elf.

They turn from Jack to seek out a leather merchant.

Jack reddens faintly and turns away. If Cyrnarel is willing to let the mistake slide past without giving Jack a tongue-lashing, Jack is more than willing to let it pass as well.

He does end up unintentionally following Cyrnarel though, and reddens further; it's not his fault Zevran likes leather.

Cyrnarel almost growls at Jack, but stops before the sound can come out. They shouldn't be so irritated with him--he helped them into the city, after all--but they'd rather not be followed around by a giant human.

They find a leather stand and pick at the cheaper scraps, giving an envious glance towards the nicer pieces. They could do with some new gloves, but they can't afford them, so they just gather some leather to patch up their jacket and a few extra pieces just in case.

Jack runs the gamut from the very fine pieces to the mid-range, but he seems to be going by _smell_ more than anything else, bringing each piece near his face and inhaling its scent. Even the proprietor is beginning to smell.

Cyrnarel wrinkles their nose at Jack but pays for their leather bits, resisting the urge to mutter something about strange shemlen. They've gotten enough strange looks for today, no need to tempt more.

A couple stands over is a vendor selling shirts, so they make their way over there, hoping they have enough coin for one.

Jack glances after them with a faint frown, and then passes some of his coin to the shopkeep. More than he'd originally planned, as a matter of fact. Ah, well. Not as if Sten or Morrigan is about anymore--though that thought leads him to a baker, and a small packet of cookies.

Everyone likes cookies.

Cyrnarel watches Jack for a moment as he heads off, going in some other direction, and starts examining some of the smaller shirts on display. Silently they wish Jack were still with them; shopkeepers stare as much at huge humans as they do at strange elves.

They settle on a simple brown shirt. It's not as soft as they'd like, but it will have to do.

Evidently Jack has been keeping half an eye on them because he does rejoin them a few minutes later, tucking the packet of sweets into his pack.

Unfortunately he's not much better about not being unsettling about it, as he doesn't say anything, just…appears.

Cyrnarel grits their teeth as Jack arrives. Normally they're perceptive and alert, but they're not used to cities. It's hard to pay attention when there's so much going on.

"You seen Mahanon, shem?" they ask. He's taller than them, and there's not many redheads out here anyway, so Jack shouldn't find it hard to find him. "He went looking for spices 'n' shit, but he's not here." The vendors he would have visited were somewhere between the first stall they visited and where they were now.

They scratch at their arm, wanting to get out from the crowds.

Jack sucks his teeth and rocks up onto his toes so he can see out above the people. Mahanon may be shorter than most of them, but red hair still stands out, and--he spots a redhead but it's a young woman towing a little boy along.

"No…" he murmurs, frowning, then signs "[Maybe he went to look for something on the other side of the market?]"

“I swear, if he's gone off to sleep with someone already..." Cyrnarel grumbled. Not that they had a problem with Mahanon, but Creators, couldn't he have some patience?

They shake their head. "Nevermind. Let's go find an inn. Or split up, if you want a fancy shem inn to stay in, but I'm not going to look for you tomorrow if you do."

"[I'll come with you.]" But he's distracted now, still scanning the crowd. Alistair and Leliana had stuck so close in Denerim, and he'd never learned as a child to find a meeting place if they should be separated. He finds he doesn't like not knowing where Mahanon is.

"Oi, quit looking. If he's gone off on his own, fine. He doesn't need you mothering him." Cyrnarel starts walking out of the market to a less crowded area, towards the alienage. There would be a few inns near there. Mahanon might not know which one they'll be in, but a few questions to the innkeepers and he'd know. "Chances are someone called him pretty and he started flirting. Might even get a better bed than wherever we're going."

They're not worried at all. They might be, if they were all alone, but for as much as they're prickly around Jack, his presence is comforting if only for the safety it provides.

"I'm not mothering," Jack says aloud, defensively. Still, he forces his eyes down, and tells himself that Morrigan went off alone all the time, and she was _fine_ , everything is _fine_.

They eventually reach one of the inns, predictably located near the alienage. "One room with two beds work for you?" Cyrnarel asks before entering one. It would be cheaper than getting separate rooms, and a small bed would be enough for them and Mahanon to share. They would prefer privacy, but they shouldn't waste the coin.

"[That's fine.]" He's half-listening for chirps on the wind still, but taking his cues from Cyrnarel, is trying to relax.

* * *

"Mind filling this for me? You can do that with magic, right?" Cyrnarel's pointing towards the bathtub in the room, opting not to add a "shem" to their comments this time and voicing their request as a request rather than a demand. They might be rude, but they know how to ask for things, and they know mages aren't treated very kindly in the Circles, Warden or not.

Jack stares. "Joke…?" He can do any number of things with magic, but water from thin air is not one of them. "[Not unless you want an indoor storm.]"

"[Ice and heat]," Cyrnarel signs.

He thinks about it. Not the way he's ever used either of those things, but--well, now he almost feels foolish for never having thought of it before.

"[I could do that.]"

Cyrnarel nods at the bathtub. "Just don't go setting the place on fire." Mahanon's done this a few times, but he's far more adept with fire than ice.

Jack's very cautious at first. After all, he's mostly used his magic for destructive purposes, since he left the Circle, and even ice can do quite a lot of structural damage if simply unleashed.

He starts by very lightly touching the edge of the tub with a frost-rimed finger and watching as frost-flowers swirl down the insides. Then heat, and the droplets roll down into the tub, though it's not even enough to cover the bottom.

Heartened, he tries again, this time coating the tub's inside with a solid sheet of ice before melting it. He's grinning now; it feels like play.

Cyrnarel can't fathom why Jack is grinning, but once the bath is filled and heated, they begin to strip, just outside of Jack's vision. "Thanks," they say, then pause once they're completely shirtless. They're thin but muscular, but it's obvious that they're skinnier than they should be, even for an elf. While their arms are scarred, the rest of their bared skin isn't.

"I suppose I should ask--would you rather bathe first?" They mentally scold themself for being so rude. Usually it's just them and Mahanon, and they tend to bathe first.

He looks up, then shrugs. "[It's okay if you do. I'll just push all the water out.]"

Because he's big. It's a joke.

Cyrnarel misses the joke, but removes the rest of their clothing and steps in the water. They don't really care about being naked around others, being quite used to it with their clan. It's been days since they last bathed in a river, and heated water is always nicer than that. They let out a sigh.

And then they hop back out, trailing water for a few steps as they grab soap from one of their packs before returning to the tub. They always forget the soap.

Jack doesn't stare, but neither does he look away. There was never much privacy at the Circle, and even when the templars and enchanters had started fretting about untoward contact between adolescents, they had never really stopped being in one another's business. It's all fairly neutral to Jack.

He half-chuckles at Cyrnarel forgetting the soap. It's the sort of thing Jowan did all the time, and makes him feel oddly nostalgic.

He begins undressing himself as well, though he's certain not to rush, not wanting _Cyrnarel_ to rush themself. After all, if the water goes cold, Jack can just heat it again.

In direct contrast to Cyrnarel, he's heavily built and heavily muscled (though with a slight softness to his belly), and he seems at first glance to be half scars and half ink. His chest and stomach are pockmarked with scars from arrow-wounds that no one should have been able to survive, and his arms and shoulders are crossed with the scars of someone who fights a little more closely than the average mage. Each wrist bears a tattoo of a length of broken chain, and across his back are the griffins rampant of the Grey Wardens.

Cyrnarel washes themself quickly and efficiently, but once they're done, they stop moving with a _"fuck"_. "Mahanon's got my towel," they growl. Meaning they either borrow Jack's or let themself air dry.

Jack grunts, not even bothering to answer, just goes digging in his pack. He has something in here somewhere, under all the armor (which is heavy as hell, but it's got his insignia and rank, so it's not as if he can just leave it somewhere). Finally, after much clattering and a few glimpses of blue fabric and silverite, he tosses a towel in the direction of the tub.

"Thanks." They step out and start to dry themself, ignoring whatever Jack has in his pack. If he has secrets, he can keep them.

Not that Cyrnarel's not curious, but they're too proud to openly pry and too cautious to dig through Jack's packs in secret. Surely he's got a vicious side to him, being a Warden and all.

"Mahanon should be here in a few hours," they say. They told the innkeeper earlier to keep an eye out for a redheaded Dalish elf.

"Good." His turn! It's been far too long, long enough that he's more than willing to use a half-damp towel.

As he goes, he tosses something onto Cyrnarel's things--a pair of leather gloves, very simple but delightfully soft.

When he gets in the tub, the water really does rise almost to the lip.

Once Cyrnarel's dressed--wearing only clean pants and smallclothes, since their old shirt needs a wash and their new one seems less than comfortable--they take a look at the gloves. The craftwork isn't as good as their current ones (and they would fight people over this; the Dalish are terribly proud of their people's work) but they're new and not falling apart. They would do for now.

"You a rich shem or some shit?" they ask, pulling them on. They don't make a particular effort to look away from Jack, now that he's in the tub, especially since he signs more than he speaks.

He sticks his hands out of the water, dripping, to reply, "[Sort of. Not rich-rich. But a little.]"

Cyrnarel snorts, taking off the gloves and putting them in one of their packs. "Well, uh. Thanks." They've never been given a gift from someone outside of their clan, so they really don't know how to respond to that.

They fall back onto their bed with a sigh. They're strong enough to travel a lot, sure, but rest and relaxation sounds pretty good right now. And now that they're on the bed, they really don't want to get up to eat or anything.

Jack doesn't say anything, just smiles and sinks under the water to wet his hair. He blows bubbles, too.

Eventually, he gets out, dries off, and takes care of the tub of water by plunging his hands into it and turning it into a massive cloud of steam with a loud hiss.

Cyrnarel sits up at the sudden heat and humidity, shoving aside the thin curtain to open the room's small window. "Common sense, shem," they say, tone only mildly biting. "I'd like to continue to breathe, you know."

"[Steam is good for you,]" he says, unperturbed. He may or may not be joking. It's hard to tell from his face, which bears the same faintly concerned look it always does.

Cyrn flicks him a rude gesture with a scowl and falls back onto their bed, fiddling with the ring on their necklace. They could probably fall asleep quickly enough if they try.

"Shit," they say. "Tell me you bought a tent at the market today. Wouldn't want you to get sick and die on us the next time it rains."

"[I'll have to get one tomorrow before we move on.]" He wrinkles his nose. "[Been rained on before, you know. Not dead yet.]"

"I too love to tempt fate," Cyrnarel says sarcastically. "What, you think you're immune 'cause you're a Warden? That doesn't protect you. Go on about glory one minute and then you're dead of a flu the next."

"[I don't go on about glory.]" Not wanting to put on sweat-stiff clothes, he also gets into bed in his smallclothes.

"'Course you don't. You're running or some shit." They roll onto their front on the bed, head turned on the pillow so they can see Jack if he signs back.

"[Not--]" He huffs a sigh. "[Only sort of running. Not the way you think.]"

"You should go eat, too, shem. The inn should be serving dinner about now." Large humans should eat plenty, they figure. "Probably just meat and root vegetables, but the food's usually better than the beds." And the beds aren't half bad.

Dinner sounds…not bad. But it also involves dressing.

"Too tired," Jack grumbles.

"Hm," Cyrnarel murmurs. They make one last effort at movement--placing their necklace in a pouch and locking the window closed again--before curling up under the bed covers facing away from Jack. The sun's only just started to set, but they're tired.

Something lands next to him on the bed--one of Jack's leather bracers. "If--I scream, throw it at me."

Cyrnarel turns over and looks at him suspiciously. "You gonna cast any spells at me if I do that?"

"[No, I'll just wake up and stop screaming. Probably.]"

"Alright, whatever you say." They place the bracer next to their pillow.

Jack's silent for a long moment, then says, softly, cautiously, "Goodnight."

Cyrnarel doesn't respond, and falls asleep within a half hour.

It takes Jack longer, but he does eventually doze.


	3. Jack Amell, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Holder of the Arling of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden

Jack has been up for a few hours by the time the sun rises, and he's been thinking. Mahanon hasn't arrived yet, and from their time on the road, Jack knows he's an early riser and ought to be back by now.

And he's Dalish, and alone in a strange city. Even if he did go home with some stranger willingly, what's to say things didn't turn ugly? Many humans think of elves as disposable unpersons, after all.

Jack knows dwelling on such things is unhelpful even if something really is wrong; it just clouds his thoughts and makes it hard to breathe. But he can't seem to help it.

By the time Cyrnarel wakes, he's pacing back and forth between their beds like a caged animal, frowning heavily, fingers flickering rapidly at his sides.

Cyrnarel doesn't even open their eyes when they wake up, a little bit earlier than normal. Mahanon's already out of bed and pacing about for whatever reason. Maybe something spooked him. They let out a loud sigh.

"[Just come back to bed, Mahanon,]" they mutter in elvish.

Jack stops in his tracks and sucks his teeth, thinking about it a moment. Cyrnarel will be angry, but--well, it's important.

"Cyrnarel. Wake up."

They push themself heavily up into a sitting position, rubbing the heel of their palm against their eye. "Oh. It's you." Their mind is still fuzzy, having just woken up and not having eaten for a while.

"Mahanon is not here." The words come with unusual fluency. He's been thinking about this for hours, more urgently as the morning drew on. "I don't like it. Something is wrong."

Cyrnarel lets out a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. They blink slowly in the morning light. "Maybe he came here earlier and left again."

"Didn't. Was awake."

"Oh." Now Cyrnarel starts to worry. Mahanon should definitely be back by now. Whatever he decided to do overnight, he should have found them at the inn.

They stare at the bedsheets for a minute before pushing themself out of bed and putting on their clothes and armor, cursing at their shaky hands.

"You think something happened." It's not a question so much as a confirmation. Cyrnarel knows Mahanon best.

"Maybe. Don't know." They can't focus and they need to not panic unreasonably, so they bite the back of their forearm, facing away from Jack. It'll be hidden by their jacket when they put it on. "Let's rent the room a second night. Market, buy your tent, bring it here, then look about, yeah?"

Jack has spent a lot of time trying to talk like other people, but when other people start talking like him, it's worrying.

"I will." He pauses, then offers awkwardly, "breathe more?"

After that he begins to dress, which is done quickly though he still doesn't neglect to briefly touch or rub each piece of jewelry.

"You think I'm not breathing enough?" Cyrnarel snaps at Jack. "I'm breathing fine, shem, so fuck off."

They feel vaguely guilty as they put on the new leather gloves, hands still shaking. It doesn't take long for them to strap all of their weapons on, and soon enough they're ready to go. Their necklace is hidden again.

Jack swallows and looks away, whispers, "stupid," despite himself. Always, mistakes.

But there's not time to dwell on it. He pauses in the midst of buckling on the stray bracer he'd tossed to Cyrnarel, and licks his lips.

"You go ahead. Need more time."

"Fine. I'll pay for another night and wait for you by the entrance. Market first. Mahanon's fine." They spare a glance for their bags, but trust Jack enough to not take anything important. They figure he wants privacy for some reason, which is the only reason they're not pacing about in the room waiting for him.

They head out the door to pay for another night, leaving Jack alone.

Jack isn't so certain. He comes out looking quite different indeed, armored openly as a mage. His breastplate bears the crest of the grey Wardens, as does the fastening of the half cape at his shoulder. The skirts of the robe are studded with silverite, shorter in the front and split in the back for freedom of movement.

He keeps his eyes down as he makes his way down to Cyrnarel, clearly embarrassed.

The plain steel sword is gone from his back, replaced with one of elvish make, though its hilt is oddly mismatched, finely worked ironbark but still with the look of a new haft on an ancient blade. Tiny lightnings dance across the metal of the blade, and the air around it smells faintly of ozone.

The innkeeper gawks at Jack and Cyrnarel does a double take. "The fuck are you doing?" they hiss at him. They're not sure quite what to make of him--he looks fancy, and rich, and powerful, none of which are going to help them find Mahanon if something's happened to him. He's too obvious. Nobody involved would be willing to talk to someone dressed like him.

Not to mention the enchanted sword and magey robe. "What, do you want templars to gawk at us, _shemlen'alas lath'din_?" They're upset, and anxious, and covering their confusion with anger.

"I might," he says darkly. "Or nobles."

"And where's that going to get us?" They exit the inn, heading vaguely and uncertainly towards the market. "Fuck this, I'll go find him on my own. We draw enough attention as it is without you pulling this shit."

"[I'm doing you a favor,]" he signs, a little sharply. He's told himself not to be nettled. Cyrnarel has reasons for feeling the way they do. "[Next to me you're a shadow. No one will think twice, Dalish or no.]"

"And who's gonna answer our questions? A Dalish isn't going to turn anyone over to the templars or guards. People aren't about to tell us 'Yeah, we saw him last night, over by the shack where smugglers sneak drugs.' We'll just be held up by templars asking if you're a real Warden." They really aren't sure what Jack is intending, but they really do just want to find Mahanon.

Jack's fingers begin to move again, and he rocks onto the balls of his feet, agitated. "[If it comes to it--templars or nobility--rank is better protection than armor. But--I can change back, or wear a cloak.]"

Cyrnarel sighs, only slightly less angry than earlier. "The fuck are you doing with your armor, then? What are you trying to get? We need to find Mahanon, not--whatever it is you want. A friendly chat with templars." They spit on the ground after the last word. "Rank means fuck-all when you're just a Warden mage anyhow. Mahanon's fine, we just need to ask about a bit and we'll find him."

Jack could almost laugh if he didn't feel so dire. He goes back and forth sometimes--from thinking that his experiences have honed his instincts to thinking that his experiences have skewed them, that nothing he thinks can be trusted at all.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it's all a terrible mistake.

"[I'll get a cloak. We'll ask around.]" He's almost meek.

Cyrnarel sighs once more. "Don't even bother. You think we haven't been seen yet? Chances are half the town knows there's some fancy dressed-up Warden walking about with a Dalish elf." They think on this for a second. "Which means Mahanon should come to us. He's fine."

Jack breathes, releasing a little of the tension. He's not convinced, but…maybe Cyrnarel is right. Maybe acting as a beacon isn't such a bad idea.

"[All right. I'll buy a tent, then.]"

Cyrnarel isn't at all convinced that Mahanon is alright, but they're trying their hardest to convince themself. "Tent. Market, tent, Mahanon. Right."

The downside is that now Jack has to deal with the attention. Cyrnarel clearly doesn't recognize him (and why would he, unless he'd been near the Brecilian forest?) and many commoners won't. But some will. There will be staring, maybe even questions.

But that'll make Mahanon curious if he's around. Jack would rather his friend not find out this way, but…so it goes.

"Market, tent, Mahanon," he agrees.

Cyrnarel walks beside Jack towards the market, firmly telling themself that Mahanon is fine and will find them and whatever attention Jack draws to them won't hurt them. Won't make it harder to find Mahanon if--

No, Mahanon's fine. He's always fine. If nothing else, he's always got blood magic.

But what if--

They still don't know what Jack wants with his outfit, but whatever. He'll buy his tent and then Mahanon will find them in the market.

Jack is looking moodier and moodier, as though he's imagining sinking his teeth (metaphorically) into someone. But he manages to get through the transaction with no major hiccups, though the shopkeep does keep doing double-takes as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

Cyrnarel scowls and bares their teeth at the shopkeep. They don't know why he's acting weirdly, but they don't like it, and Mahanon isn't here.

"He's in the market, yeah?" they ask Jack. "He's here somewhere. Find him."

Jack rounds on him, snapping "Can I get you a ladder, so you can _get off my back_?"

Without another word, he strides away. The crowd parts around him with a muttering, and he moves with purpose.

Cyrnarel stops where they are, hurt flashing across their face for a moment before they glare at Jack's back. They let him walk off as they wander in another direction, searching for Mahanon. They would start asking about, but right now, they're more likely to threaten people than anything, and they still have the sense to know that won't get them very far.

Jack for his part is heading for high ground. Being tall is one thing, but it's not the same as being able to see _everything_ , and that's what he wants.

It's a few dozen yards before he realizes Cyrnarel isn't behind him anymore. Great. Two elves lost. The crowd has closed behind him now, so he'll have to rely on the high ground to spot Cyrnarel as well.

And this, he thinks, is why he ought to at _least_ have Alistair with him. Alistair may have looked to him as the unquestioned leader, but alone? Alone, Jack just botches everything.

Cyrnarel can still see Jack--he stands out way too obviously to miss--but sees few elves in the market, and fewer redheads. He's the only Dalish there.

And he's surrounded by humans. And hasn't eaten in a solid twenty hours or so.

He leans on the side of a building to try to calm himself down, because he knows he's shaky and not thinking straight, but he just wants to find Mahanon. "Shouldn't have come here," he mutters.

He also knows he's being watched by a few guards and templars around the market. Fewer then yesterday, now that Jack's got some of their attention, but they're still suspicious of strange, heavily armed elves.

Jack is scanning. Few redheads, and no elven ones. He rocks up and down on the balls of his feet a few times, willing Mahanon to appear, wondering vaguely if he might be able to track him through the Fade somehow. He is a mage, after all.

Jack doesn't know how, though, if it's even possible. and Mahanon does not appear. Jack does, however, notice that there seem to be more Templars about than is usual.

Cyrnarel starts to ask people a few questions, starting with the alchemy and leather merchants he visited yesterday, but gets negative responses. He's restless, anxious, and nervous about the templars hanging about; he knows asking questions without buying things looks suspicious, but he can't waste any more coin.

Jack probably just wants to ditch him, he figures. Dressed up like that? Shouldn't have trusted him in the first place.

Maybe Jack's behind whatever happened to Mahanon. Maybe trusting him at all was a huge mistake.

Jack, meanwhile, is considering bellowing Mahanon's name to see if that draws him out. And that almost makes him laugh. If Mahanon could be drawn out, he would be _out_ by now. This isn't right, and he knows it, he's known it for hours.

He drops much of his pack--the tent, the less valuable armor, the trinkets--behind a tree, masked with magic, leaving only his purse, his weapons, and a few potions to his disposal.

This done he sets off back down the hill to find Cyrnarel.

Cyrnarel should eat something, he knows, but it was Mahanon's job to get food things, and he's being careful with his coin. He moves towards the middle of the crowds again, wandering aimlessly. The templars can't reach him easily, but if they're watching him, they're going to be even more suspicious. And if he leaves to actually look about for Mahanon, they might stop him.

He might just bite the next person he bumps into at this rate.

Fortunately Jack doesn't actually collide with him.

"Cyrnarel."

The elf turns quickly, startled, every muscle tensed, and he relaxes only marginally when he sees who it is. "The fuck do you want?" he asks. He's being overly defensive and he knows it, but he doesn't care.

Jack's eyebrows lift. Now that he's feeling more sure of himself, he's less stung by Cyrnarel's harsh words.

"[You look awful.]"

"I didn't ask," he snarls. He might be in awful shape right now, but he doesn't care. He doesn't bother asking about Mahanon again, either. "The fuck do you want?" he asks again.

"[You to stick close. Lot of templars around.]" A pause, and he produces the packet of cookies he'd bought the day before. "[Here.]"

As much as Cyrn wants to protest, he thinks Jack might be safer than the templars. For all his worries Jack doesn't quite seem the type who would hurt Mahanon.

He takes the packet of cookies but just stares at them distastefully. He's as fond of human sweets as any other elf, but doesn't want to eat.

"I can't find Mahanon," he says. "Don't know where he went."

Jack softens a little.

"[We will find him.]"

"Yeah. 'Course." He doesn't sound like he believes it, but he does want to find Mahanon.

"Couple of merchants haven't seen him. Don't figure you've asked anyone, have you?"

"[Not yet. Come with me a while. I know some people.]"

He just has to find them, first. He's acquired quite the network of ne'er-do-wells across his travels, and they don't tend to just sit out in the open.

Cyrnarel figures he doesn't really have a choice, so he follows close behind Jack, keeping an eye out for templars and Mahanon. He shoves a cookie in his mouth, frustrated that Jack could tell he needed to eat. He doesn't like to show any weakness.

Jack leads him through dirty back alleys and sleazy inns, in which he seems entirely comfortable despite the many suspicious stares he's receiving. Finally, his quest bears fruit: a dropped name leads him to the back of a warehouse, and two women in oddly-patched Circle robes, one blind, one sighted.

The sighted one has seen a red-headed elf.

Cyrnarel puts away the cookie packet in a pouch at some point during their journey, half-eaten. He's hopeful and excited at the news the women have.

"Dalish, yeah? Red tattoos on his face? Where is he? When did you see him?"

"Oh, last night, a little after dark. Talking to two men--Templars in plain clothes."

Jack blanches. "[And you didn't say anything?]"

The blind woman turns her head in his direction and says unhappily, "Who do you think we are?"

"What were they talking about? Where did they go?" Worried as he is, Cyrnarel can't quite control his words, making him impatient and not wanting to rely on Jack. And templars. If there was anything any Dalish did, especially a mage, it was avoid templars at all costs.

"We weren't eavesdropping, just staying out of sight," the first woman says, twisting her braid anxiously. "They went west. There's a tavern down there a lot of folk like. They were probably headed there."

"[Or they told him they were,]" Jack signs jerkily, angry. "[How could you just watch it happen!]"

"You're a Warden, Jack," Cyrnarel scolds. "You might be able to get your arse out of prison, convince people you've got some sort of value, but them? They get too close to templars, they might get knifed before they say more than a few words." He's not sure whether they're mages or not, but if they are, they could be rendered useless the moment a templar purges their magic. "You'll never see me or Mahanon stopping templars because nobody cares about a couple of dead elves. Now let's go."

Jack starts at the sound of his name. Mahanon calls him Jack and even on occasion, friend or falon, but never Cyrnarel. To Cyrnarel he's always shemlen or shem, or some other invective.

He lets out a low, grumbling sound, then signs hastily to the mages, "[Thank you. I'll bring supplies later.]"

He hates that he's supposed to just accept that the world is this way, but he turns to follow Cyrnarel.

Cyrnarel leads Jack through the alleyways and roads to the west, coming across the tavern that was mentioned earlier. It's not too busy, being only noon, but it has a fair amount of patrons regardless.

It might be useful to question the templars, but Warden or not, there's no way Jack will get a straight answer out of them. Cyrnarel is hopeful that Mahanon really is just inside. He can at least ask the barkeeper if they've seen him.

Jack is on-edge. He'd almost rather it was Tevinters, but templars are another story. He's not bad with a simple sword on its own, but he's certainly much _better_ with magic, and the thought of being cut off makes him panicky.

But that doesn't mean he can shirk. He'll talk to, threaten, bribe whoever he needs to.

But Mahanon isn't in the bar.

Neither has the barkeeper seen Mahanon, and Cyrnarel wants to scream, because where the hell did he go?

"What now?" he mutters to Jack, still inside the bar. No templars to overhear them here. He could possibly sneak about the city, threaten a few people with knives, and run off again, but these are templars. Chances are he wouldn't find any answers like that.

"[Someone, somewhere knows about this,]" he signs back. "[I--we--just have to find them.]"

People who know things often hang about in the back rooms of taverns and inns in fact. They'll just… slip through into one of the other rooms. He jerks his head to indicate that Cyrnarel follow him as he goes through.

Cyrn follows close behind, not wanting to lose sight of Jack. It would be just his luck to end up completely alone in a city filled with templars.

There are shady characters lurking there, as they are wont to do, but no one is more surprised than Jack when he sees someone he recognizes--a young man who'd been serving under Isabela. They're no more than acquaintances, but the man is a merry rogue and hops off the table he's been perching on, calling, "Jack! What on earth is the H--"

"[Don't say it,]" Jack cuts him off.

Cyrnarel looks at Jack with a raised eyebrow but says nothing. It's obvious these two know each other, so he gives a slight nod Jack's way, letting him control the conversation.

"Oh, I forgot." He leans conspiratorially toward Cyrnarel and whispers loudly, "He hates being called aught other than Jack. The captain called him 'sweetmeat' once, and he didn't like it a bit."

Jack sighs. "[I don't have time to talk. I have a question.]"

"I'll answer it if you can beat me at Wicked Grace!"

"[If I beat Isabela, don't you think I can beat you? I don't have time to waste. You know any templars who come here, out of armor? Plain clothes?]"

Cyrnarel reaches up to pat Jack on the shoulder. "Shem here," he says, referring to Jack, "needs some questions answered, and I've got some thirsty blades. Rather use them on templars than you, yeah?" It's not a heavy threat, but hopefully enough to get the point across, especially considering how well armed he is.

The man looks between the two of them. "You let him call you that?" he asks Jack. Jack shrugs blandly, letting Cyrnarel's threat speak for itself.

"All right, all right, keep your shirt on, elf. Yeah the templars come here. Worse than rats, they are--and not the good kind. They--"

This could go on all day. Jack makes a quick cutting motion with one hand. "[Get on with it. What are they up to, and where do they go to get up to it?]"

"They've got some kind of drug habit; I've seen them in here with that look in their eye. They're after selling anything they can get their hands on. Can't fault them for that, but it gets worse--"

"Get on with it!" Jack snarls.

Cyrnarel's somewhat surprised by Jack's aggression, but he's already figured it out, and he's less than pleased. He hears about things like this happening far too often. "Where do they keep them?" he asks. His voice is quiet but his face is hard. "Where do they keep them, shem?"

Well, the man isn't a close friend, and Jack finds pointless nattering frustrating at the best of times, let alone when an _actual_ friend is in danger.

Looking between their two stony faces, the pirate finally seems to realize the seriousness of the situation. He swallows, and says simply, "That abandoned warehouse by the mill. They keep them there until they can go up north and meet with slavers in the mountains."

Cyrn lets out a breath through his teeth. "Tell us everything you know. Guard rotations. Who else knows about the place. Who might want to stop us." An idealist would want to tear the place down. Cyrnarel just wants to get Mahanon out without getting either of them killed.

"That's all I know! I don't truck with that kind of stuff!"

Jack sighs. "[Fine. Let's go.]" Almost as an afterthought, he tosses the man a coin--a silver. His information wasn't good enough for gold.

"Do you know where the mill is?" Cyrnarel asks once they're out. He's ready to sprint to wherever it is, once he finds out.

Or not, since templars will be watching. Right now they're prepared to kill some.

"[It's not on the hill, so it must be by the river.]" He points. "That way."

"Right," Cyrnarel says, taking a deep breath. His stomach growls and he glances accusingly at the bar. "You lead. You're... less suspicious." People were less likely to suspect a Warden of foul play, even a mage Warden. At least, he hoped.

He begins to walk briskly, signing absently, "[I hope they've made peace with the Maker.]"

A beat.

"[Actually, I don't hope that. I hope they rot.]"

“Fucking shemlen," Cyrnarel growls.

"All you're going to do is attract attention with your fancy outfit. You're shit at sneaking--you're a giant, shiny shem, for Mythal's sake--so when we get there, stay away. I'll sneak in on my own." He's already considering possible entrances into the building and possible rotations. "I might have to sit and watch for an hour or two though. To figure out their movements."

"[Are you starting that again? You know you may well be outnumbered, and you're no good to anyone dead.]"

"So we run in there, make a mess, and get ourselves both killed? Or worse? They'll sell me and make you tranquil." He shakes his head. "Not fucking happening. I sneak in there, I've got a better chance of pulling through."

"[They might well yield to me. Perhaps not. They may be too desperate. But there's a good chance.]"

Cyrnarel snorts, despite his unease. "Yeah, sure, templars listening to a mage Warden. They're not gonna care about your Warden glory shit. Nobody's gonna notice one of you going missing anyhow."

Jack blinks. "[I am not a mage Warden. Well--I am not only a mage Warden.]"

Now Cyrnarel's confused. "What, you an enchanter or something? That's a title given to some mages, right?" He thinks on it a moment. That would make Jack's lone wandering make a little more sense, but why he would be both an enchanter and a Warden is beyond him.

"Ugh," he says aloud, "enchanter. [And stay locked in the bloody tower for the rest of my life? Certainly not. They asked; I turned them down.]"

"So, like I said. More of your weird glory shit. Which is just going to get us killed."

"No! Would you just listen?"

Cyrnarel stops, shifting his weight impatiently. "Fine. What is it?"

Jack sighs heavily. He hates reciting his titles, but he's trained himself to do it. Keeps the nobility in line.

"Jack Amell, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, holder of the Arling of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden."

Cyrnarel tilts his head. "No."

"Yes."

At this point Cyrnarel's just angry. Is this a joke? "You really expect me to believe that shit? You really expect _them_ to believe that shit?"

"[Well, they're templars. They've probably heard of us.]"

"Heard of us wandering about the city or heard about you being the fucking Hero of Ferelden?" Cyrnarel starts walking again, briskly. "We're getting Mahanon out of there without your weird lies."

"[Second one. It isn't a lie!]"

"Right, yeah, which is why Mahanon had to _save your fucking life_."

"[It didn't make me immune to blades.]"

"You're also a shit liar."

"[You think they give the stupid shiny shoulder thing to just anyone? Apparently I'm shit at telling the truth, because I'm not lying!]"

"Whatever you say, shem."

"[And it's nothing about glory, either,]" he snaps. "[It's vigilance, victory, sacrifice. No glory.]"

"Sure thing." Cyrnarel still doesn't believe it. This guy? Hero of Ferelden?

"[Listen, I didn't ask for any of this.]"

"Right, well, I didn't ask for my bonded to go saving random shems. We wouldn't even be here in the first place if you weren't with us."

That shuts Jack up quite neatly, and he goes the rest of the way in silence, face dark.

The abandoned warehouse and mill are not far from clusters of small houses on the outskirts of town. It's still daylight, being only early afternoon, and if they approach now they'll be visible.

"You really want to pull this shit and try getting us killed, shem?" Cyrnarel asks. He's not sure of his chances of surviving if he does it his way, but he hates relying on others. There's a number of templars milling about--a couple around the mill, some around the houses--but they haven't been seen yet. If they have, the templars are feigning ignorance well.

Jack is chewing the inside of his cheek. "Not sure. Could die either way. [Folk have tried to kill me before, even after--everything. They failed, but they weren't templars."

"Let me rephrase this, then: You going to try this shit or am I going to sneak in on my own?"

He thinks.

"[You go in the back. I go in the front and make a distraction. You shout if something goes wrong.]"

Cyrnarel nods. "Right, you go distract. Give me ten minutes to move, then you go, and I'll sneak in while you... make a fuss."

"Got it." He reaches over his shoulder and touches Spellweaver's haft, as if to reassure himself it's still there.

Cyrnarel takes off, weaving his way past houses and templars without being seen. By the time his ten minutes are up, he can see a clear path up to the warehouse, and he waits for his distraction.

If he tries to get out everyone who's in there, they'll all get killed or recaptured. It's going to hurt, just getting Mahanon out.

Jack is right on cue, and he walks straight in the front as if he's already been invited in, which he certainly hasn't. By the time Cyrnarel is inside, he'll be able to hear them talking--or the templars talking, with pauses while Jack answers in sign, though at some point he does reel off his long list of titles--faintly, from a few rooms away.

Cyrnarel has a few near-misses where he's almost caught, but makes it to the warehouse safely once all the templars are either near the front or, in one case, just barely looking away from him. He still has to slit one's throat just through the back entrance, but he doesn't have any regrets there.

It doesn't take him long to find the room with the captured elves. He breathes a sigh of relief--there's only five of them, all young adults, probably from the alienage, and Mahanon makes six. The chances to get them all out are higher than he thought, but still--Jack had better make a huge scene, or else they might not escape.

Another pair of templars passes by, talking in hushed voices, too distracted to even look in on the prisoners.

"But what would _he_ be doing here?"

"Investigating, maybe."

"A Warden ought to be _investigating_ darkspawn, not a couple of missing knife-ears. Did you hear what happened in Denerim?"

"He probably holds a grudge. A mage is still a mage, no matter what he did; that's what I'd have told the Queen before she gave him an arling."

"The point is, if it _is_ him, and he brings word out of here--it's all our heads."

Cyrnarel is still convinced that Jack's bluffing, but if he won't make a distraction, Mahanon can.

On second thought, it turns out that Mahanon is really not in the best shape to provide a distraction, having been fed magebane and roughed up to a point where movement is limited somewhat.

Cyrn could always try to kill his way out of this one, but while he's good at stealth, he's really never killed a lot of people.

The conversation disappears down the hallway: "So we make sure he can't bring word. Like you said, a mage is still a mage."

A few more moments of silence, and then Cyrnarel hears shouts and the clash of steel on steel.

"Shit," he mutters. He hands small knives to three of the five others caught there and quietly urges them to run. Mahanon takes a moment to grab some of his packs--and his sword, at that--and leads them out.

Cyrnarel stays inside and catches up to the fight ahead, taking out one templar silently before he's seen.

It takes Jack a moment to spot him, being rather busy. It's a hard fight, given the templars disabled his magic very quickly, but he's holding his own given how steeply outnumbered he is. When he does spot Cyrnarel, his eyes go wide, and he almost gets a sword through his gut, though he parries it aside at the last moment.

He can't sign, what with the sword in his hand, so instead he growls, "What--are you-- _run_!"

"Not a chance, shem," they say. They can hold their own for a while and help Jack out, though they're still suffering from hunger and templar armor is difficult to deal with. So long as they pay attention, they can help buy time for Mahanon and the others.

And then they can run, faster than any of the templars.

"I've got it!"

Jack’s timing is not the best. In his distraction, he gets a mailed fist full to the face, and his nose makes a truly unpleasant sound.

Of course, the offending templar goes down on one knee and takes a sword through the throat a moment later.

"Obviously not! Just focus on yourself, shem!" Fervently they hope that Mahanon's escaping safely. If they're lucky, he'll find his way back to the inn before they do.

Unfortunately, a few minutes and three incapacitated templars later their plan to flee dies quickly as a sword catches the back of their leg and a heavily armored boot kicks their back, pushing them face-down on the ground.

Jack has been keeping half an eye on them since they insisted upon entering the fray, so Cyrnarel avoids losing their head. Jack lunges at the templar driving him back.

Cyrnarel finds himself in a tight spot as he pushes himself back up on his feet. He can still fight, sure, but he can't move quickly. His lower back aches and he can't move his left leg easily, let alone put a lot of weight on it. Considering he relies on speed and mobility to fight, this is not good, but at least Jack's good at fighting.

Not only is Jack good at what he does, he's actively covering Cyrnarel now, guarding him. It makes things harder, but the silver lining is that there are only a couple of templars left, and they're beginning to look wary.

Luckily, Cyrnarel has good enough aim that he's able to flick a throwing knife into one of the templars' eyes, but that's the last of his usefulness for the battle and he has to let Jack finish them off while he defends himself.

Jack _almost_ goes down when the last knight stamps on his instep, in out of sword range, but that's when he slips his dagger out of his belt and cuts the man's throat.

And then it's over. Jack lets the dagger fall to the floor and bends double, dripping blood and sweat from his face.

"Are you alright?" Cyrnarel asks, daggers sheathed. They have bandages with them and should bandage their own leg, but not if Jack's going to bleed out on them.

"Hnn," Jack grunts, but nods. He's not hurt, just exhausted. He's worried about Cyrnarel though, and points at his leg. "?" It's not even a grunt, just a…sound. A questioning sound.

They lean against one of the walls and let themself slide slowly down until they're seated. They quickly wrap a bandage around the wound, wincing as they do so. It needs more attention, but that would be better done back at the inn.

"We should get back to the inn," they say, pushing themself back up. It takes more effort than they'd like. "Mahanon should be around there too. If he got out fine. He has to be fine."

Jack nods, then hesitates and straightens, holding out his arm. In case Cyrnarel needs help.

He does momentarily entertain the thought of slinging the elf over his shoulder and simply carrying him, but while it's an amusing image, he's fairly sure it would end with a knife in his ear.

Cyrnarel rejects the offered help for a few steps, sighs, and bares his teeth at Jack as he accepts the arm, cursing in elvish. Shuffling about and almost falling would be even more shameful.

Jack won't embarrass him further by looking too closely at him, or saying anything, or trying to support him beyond the offered arm. But the arm at least is firm and steady, and Jack keeps an even pace, watching carefully for uneven patches on the path.

They pass by no more odd templars on their way back, just a few at their normal stations. They aren't approached--maybe word got out already about what had happened. Before they know it, they're back in the inn room they'd rented, Mahanon sitting comfortably in the bathtub.

Jack deposits Cyrnarel at one of the beds and releases him. Cyrnarel is, of course, wounded, and Jack is all blood from nose to neck, and a few spatters are beginning to roll down the front of his armor. His magic has come back to him, but he still feels all wrong in his skin. He knows he ought to tell Mahanon that Cyrnarel is wounded and needs looked after, but words feel far away. Instead, he watches blood drip onto the rug.

He would have expected to think of any time he or his companions had been wounded, or of the many people he's killed, but instead, it's Jowan who comes to mind, and that's when the tears begin to roll silently down his face.

Cyrnarel digs through their packs for a bowl and cloth, dipping the bowl in the bath and placing it on the small table between the two beds. They hold out the cloth to Jack--it'll help with some of the mess before Jack gets to bathe properly. "You in pain, shem? Need some elfroot?"

Mahanon doesn't react to the other two, just soaking in the bathwater, ticcing less than usual. There are some bruises and cuts visible on his shoulders and arms, but he is mostly unharmed.

Jack shakes his head. He is in pain, of course, from his nose, but it isn't so bad. He looks away from Cyrnarel, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand.

They place the cloth next to the bowl of water. "Wash your face if you like."

Unless they get Jack to stitch their leg wound--which they really don't want to--they have to wait for Mahanon to finish. They kneel down next to the bathtub and start murmuring softly in elvish, but Mahanon doesn't visibly respond.

Jack has composed himself, and is mopping up his face when he notices.

"Is he--okay?"

It feels like a stupid question, obviously Mahanon isn't okay, and who would be? But he can't think of anything closer to what he means, and he visibly cringes back, expecting a harsh retort from Cyrnarel.

Cyrnarel looks at Jack without the anger he was expecting. They almost look a little sad. "He'll be alright. It's just the magebane. And the shock. Probably." It's rare that Mahanon becomes unresponsive like this, but it's happened before. "He's just stressed."

"Okay. I c'n--[I can look at your leg, if you want.]"

They wrinkle their nose, then look at Mahanon again, face softening. "You know how to stitch a wound?" Wardens should, but they're not about to forget how Jack ended up with them.

"Mmhm. [No good for healing magic, though.]"

"Fine." They kiss Mahanon on the forehead, then stand and gather the materials needed: Elfroot salve, a kit for stitches, and another bowl and cloth. They remove their jacket, belts, bandage, and pants, leaving them in a shirt and smalls.

They lie face-down on their bed, as the wound is on the back of their leg, and gesture to the empty bowl. "Magic," they say.

So, Jack boils the water clean, waiting patiently for it to cool before using it to clean the wound.

He stitches neatly enough, but it takes all of his focus, and the work is agonizingly slow. The salve he makes use of liberally, knowing it can't be a pleasant experience for Cyrnarel.

Cyrnarel bites their lip. They're used to pain, but going slow makes it hurt quite a lot, and they don't know that Jack really deserves the trust they're giving him right now. Still, they mutter a "thanks" once he's done and rest on the bed for another minute or two.

Jack breaks off the thread and tucks it back into the kit, heating the needle to a dull red glow to clean it first. "Sorry," he mumbles back.

"You helped me out, yeah? Don't need to apologize." They wrap a fresh bandage around their leg while still on the bed and then stand to replace their pants.

"Come on, vhenan, you're going to wrinkle," they say to Mahanon. With gentle nudges they're able to get him out of the bath (frowning as they realize it's been cold for a while now) and start to towel him dry as he stands. Thankfully, while the bruises and cuts extend down to his legs, all of his injuries are minor.

"Well. For hurting," Jack fumbles. It's the worst part about healing, magical or not. Wynne says it's natural--that a broken bone will ache if left to its own devices as it heals--but while Jack thinks very little of cutting a templar's throat, reaching down into someone's body to knit it together makes him squeamish.

He glances worriedly at Mahanon, then away, fiddling with his necklaces.

"You can bathe, shem," Cyrnarel says. "You're filthy."

Once Mahanon is dry, they don't bother to dress him, setting him up on the bed so he's sitting up with his back against the pillows. They're thankful that Jack isn't as prude as most humans--most would make a fuss over Mahanon's chest, but this one doesn't.

"You want lunch?" they ask Jack, picking out a coinpurse from Mahanon's pile of stuff on the floor. Mahanon probably hasn't eaten in a day and the inn should still be serving food at this time.

"Uh huh." He unbuckles his own purse and tosses it at Cyrnarel. "Extra. If you need."

"Sure." If Jack insists that he's a rich shem, might as well use his money.

Cyrnarel leaves to collect food, leaving Mahanon sitting silently on the bed with the occasional chirp or cough.

Well, at least he's doing that much. Seeing him completely still would be unsettling. Jack looks at the door. He'd meant to ask if it was all right to talk to Mahanon in this state, but it's too late now. With a sigh, he undresses and steps into the water, relishing the ease with which he can heat it. He sinks down to his ears, letting it burn away the ache in his muscles.

"[Do you want to see a story?]" Jack asks Mahanon, sticking his hands up over the edge of the tub, drops of water flicking from his fingers.

Of course, Mahanon isn't even looking his way so it's hard to be sure he can even read the signs, let alone answer, but Jack asks anyway.

Mahanon turns his head a little, allowing him to read Jack's signs better, but otherwise doesn't react to him.

Jack takes it as a yes.

"[I broke my nose before once, when I was little. I was seven or eight, and Jowan was nine. Jowan is, was…my friend. Family, really. We were sneaking down to the kitchen to steal sweets--we didn't get sweets very often. So we were in the kitchen, and we suddenly heard steps. Jowan panicked and yanked the door open--right into my face. Knocked me right out.]"

Mahanon is…busy with whatever he's busy with still, so Jack briefly ducks his head under the water and takes the opportunity to wash his hair, and--carefully--his face. Then he continues.

"[Then there was the time Mala requested a distillation kit for 'herb work' and made a grain liquor so strong it could have stripped paint. We drank ourselves sick, of course. The enchanters caught on when all three of us were too sick to go to lessons the next day. We were forbidden from the supply room for a month.]"

Cyrnarel returns, carrying two plates with food that at least smells edible and doesn't look awful. They place one on Jack's bed (along with Jack's coinpurse) and gently sit next to Mahanon with the second plate on their lap.

"You bothering him, shem?" they ask, placing a breadroll in Mahanon's hands. It takes a few nudges, but he starts nibbling at it.

Jack sticks his hands back in the water and pops his dripping head up. "Guess so."

Cyrn gives Jack a curious look but then returns to helping Mahanon eat. They eat a little from the plate themself, but save most of it for Mahanon.

"He should be back to normal within a few hours. Maybe tomorrow," they say. "But we should leave tomorrow before any more templars try to get us. You know they'll want revenge if they can get it."

"'Course." He heaves himself out of the tub, reaching for his towel. He's barely dry before he makes it to his bed and starts eating everything in sight.

Once the food's gone, Cyrnarel helps Mahanon lie down and tucks him into the bed. It's still just the afternoon, but that's probably more comfortable for him. They check their packs to make sure everything's still there and put away anything that's been left out.

"Cyrnarel," Jack says cautiously. He's always cautious with them.

After finishing his dinner, he's deconstructed his bedding, and is currently residing in a massive blanket cocoon.

"Yes?" they ask, pausing with their packs.

"Thank you. Didn't have to come after me."

They snort and resume packing. "It's common sense. You were outnumbered, and if you died, the templars would've come after us again."

"[Wouldn't have died.]"

"Right, yeah, might've just actually lost your leg this time, no big deal." They stand up and stretch their arms, then grab their coat and another few things and sit on the bed next to Mahanon. They run a hand through his hair before they begin patching up the jacket.

"[That was Darkspawn. Different.]"

"Like you can take on that many templars on your own. Shit idea for a mage, Warden or no."

"[I killed about nine of them on my own!]"

"Has anyone ever told you you're reckless? Because that shit was reckless. Your insistence on fancy fake titles won't save you from a blade."

"[Well. I hear that a lot.]"

"No fucking shit," they say, almost violently pulling the needle through their jacket.

Mahanon mumbles something to them, too quiet for Jack to hear, and they smile at him.

"[Cautious men don't stop blights,]" Jack insists, a little stung.

"Cautious men don't fucking die easily," Cyrnarel says. "And there you go, with your glory shit again."

"[It's not glory! And I'm not dead.]"

"You're not dead and you're barely injured. Partly because I helped you. And if I recall, a few Fereldan Wardens stopped the blight, not all of you. Bet they would've died without caution."

"[Two. Two Wardens. And--others. Not Wardens.]"

"Sure thing, shem. You still think you're the Hero?" Granted, they know little about the Hero, but Jack can't be him.

"[I know it. It's true that--it's not right to call it that. I wasn't alone.]"

"I don't need your lies, shem."

"[Should be _heroes_ \--]" He frowns. "Not lying!"

Mahanon looks like he's drifting off to sleep, so Cyrnarel awkwardly switches between signing and sewing.

"[A lone, wounded mage Warden--who might not even be a Warden at all--who's traveling with a couple of unknown Dalish elves and killing templars.  Are you really rich? Are you just a thief? Heroes don't do this.]" There's no judgment in their eyes as they pick up their jacket again, just tiredness.

He ducks his head and sticks his hand out, the dark vial dangling from his hands. "[My Oath.]"

Cyrnarel shakes their head, neither understanding nor bothering to understand.

Jack sighs and puts it back on. "[Only Wardens wear them.]"

"[Sure thing.]"

"[I'm not a thief.]"

"[Then how are you rich? Fancy parents help you out in the Circle?]"

His face retreats a little into the shadows of his cocoon. "[I don't know who my parents are.]"

Cyrnarel winces at that. "[Sorry.]" They forgot how weirdly awful humans can be to their mages.

Jack grunts faintly. "[Didn't choose to join the Wardens, either. Conscripted. So you can hush about glory.]"

They screw up their face. "[Fine.]"

"[I was looking at tranquility or the Aeonar, if I didn't go.]"

"[Fine, I get it, I'm sorry.]"

Jack forces himself to take an even, slow breath. "[It's okay.]"

Cyrnarel hates to admit that they're ever wrong, but Jack is a confusing human at times and they find it hard to believe what he says. Especially when he says he helped stop the Blight. They won't push it, but they won't believe it, either.

They continue sewing their jacket.

Jack falls silent, or rather his hands go still. Eventually he dozes off but he's propped up in his cocoon so there's no way to tell.

* * *

A few hours later Mahanon wakes up again.

Cyrnarel would have left the room to wander the city by now, but they're too wary of templars to do so, so they've been sitting on the bed idly, practicing reading one of Mahanon's books on magical theory. It's dry, but good practice.

Mahanon sits up beside them with a loud yawn, blinking blearily and looking about the room.

Jack, who woke up sat some point but hasn't moved, blinks at him, eyes gleaming out of his blanket-cowl.

"Hi," Mahanon says to Jack. Cyrnarel puts down the book and wraps an arm around his waist.

Jack emerges partially. He looks tired, as though he's hardly slept.

"Hi."

Cyrnarel removes their arm and reaches down beside the bed for something, coming up with the remaining half of the cookies from earlier. They hand it to Mahanon, who begins to eat them slowly, still blinking tiredly.

Jack watches them, but he doesn't seem particularly motivated to talk either, simply letting his eyes drift tiredly from one to the other.

Cyrnarel and Mahanon have a quiet conversation in elvish while Mahanon eats, mentioning Jack's name a couple times. Eventually they kiss briefly and Mahanon turns to Jack.

"Thanks for the cookies."

He smiles faintly. "Welcome."

"You okay, Jack?"

"Tired."

Mahanon nods. "Thanks for helping us out. The rest of the elves got home fine, thanks to you."

Jack opens his mouth. "Ah." He seems to fish for a reaction for a moment, but finally manages a brighter, more genuine smile. "Glad."

Mahanon finishes the cookies and brushes the crumbs off the bed, leaning on Cyrn's shoulder comfortably. "You two had better be friends now, after all that time left together. I'd hate for all that to have been a waste."

Cyrnarel scowls at him, not appreciating the joke. "You could have been hurt worse than you were, ma’nehn."

"Came after me," Jack says softly. It's close enough to friends, he guesses.

"Well, at least you both came," Mahanon says, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Cyrnarel groans in embarrassment.

It takes Jack a moment, but he's spent enough time with Zevran to get it. He wrinkles his nose, sticks his tongue out, and retreats entirely into the blankets, closing the gap over his head.

"I... I didn't mean to..." Mahanon says, worrying that he's offended Jack. Maybe he's still somewhat out of it.

Jack reappears a moment later, still a little red-faced. "Okay." As in, it's okay.

"Okay," Mahanon says, a bit relieved at that. Not completely out of it, then.

"So..." he says, looking down at Jack's armor. He saw it earlier, of course, when Jack came in, but didn't pick up on the details that he could now. "Warden-Commander Amell, huh?" Nobody mentioned the name "Amell" to him so far, but he knows his mages.

Cyrnarel slowly leans forward. "He's not a Warden-Commander. No fucking way. He's a liar. He--when did you even hear him insist on that?"

"Elgar'nan's sake, Cyrn, it's on his armor."

Even though Jack had openly _told_ Cyrnarel a mere few hours ago, his eyes dart as if he's been caught out.

"Ye-es."

"Well then," Mahanon says with a smile, Cyrnarel's face expressing both confusion and disbelief. "What does the esteemed Hero of Ferelden think of my tits?"

Jack goes red right to the ears and makes a sound like a horse choking on something. Blinking hard, he manages to say, "Nice."

Mahanon beams at him. "Thanks!"

Cyrnarel looks at Jack. "You're fucking kidding me. He is the Warden-Commander? The Hero of Ferelden?"

"His armor proves it, Cyrn. Hm..." Mahanon places a finger on his lips, looking at the armor. "Have you ever had sex in that?"

Jack presses his lips together. "[No, and you aren't the first to ask.]"

"Would you like to?"

"[No! It's a uniform. I'd rather be _me_.]"

Apparently Mahanon is not doing great with words today. "Yes, but it's a sexy uniform. You're still Jack, of course." He gives a pointed look at Cyrn, who has a bit of a blush now as well.

"[Well why don't you wear it and have sex with someone, then?]" he signs dryly.

"Can I?"

Jack sticks his head out a little further to stare. Then he shrugs. "[I guess. Little big for you.]"

"I'm not fucking you in a shem outfit, Mahanon."

Mahanon sighs and looks at Jack. "I don't suppose...?"

"[It would be too strange, I couldn't.]"

He shrugs. "Well, we could always just do it naked."

"Do I need to give you two some privacy?" Cyrnarel asks.

Jack retreats again, too embarrassed, and signs out of the gap "[Not right now.]"

Mahanon keeps that in mind--'not right now' is a pretty good 'maybe later' for him. And although he'd really like to make use of a bed while he has one, kicking Jack out doesn't seem like a nice thing to do. "Well, thanks for helping out, Jack. You're a good man."

"Thanks," he says, muffled.


	4. Stay

A few days later they're continuing on their journey to the west through forests and side roads, Jack still unaware of where they're headed (and never having asked). It's late afternoon and Cyrnarel has a few rabbits strung together on their belt. Thankfully, Mahanon actually did get spices and vegetables before being kidnapped, so their food isn't awfully bland each day.

Mahanon's gone catatonic again for a couple hours each day, but he's better now than he was the first day he was found and fairly chatty again. Cyrnarel is their typical grumpy self, trying to ignore that Jack is actually who he says he is.

Jack is getting less chatty as time goes on, however, even his signs becoming shorter and less complex. He's up well before Mahanon each morning, and is persistently vague about how long he's _been_ up.

Still, the ever-present shadows under his eyes have been getting deeper, and he's beginning to fulfill Cyrnarel's expectations of a noisy shemlen, tripping over roots and rocks and uneven patches of ground.

He does it again and suppresses a growl of frustration, catching himself against a tree.

As much as Cyrnarel would love to prod at Jack, they're aware enough to know that he's not feeling well. It would be more of a problem if they had templars or something to worry about, but Cyrnarel keeps quiet except for the occasional remark.

"Do you need a break?" Mahanon asks, stopping beside him. Cyrnarel lets out an obvious sigh but says nothing. "Is it your leg?" Cyrnarel, on the other hand, has been managing fine with their leg.

Jack blinks hard and shakes his head. "[Leg's fine.]"

Mahanon notes the evasion of the first question. He says something in elvish to Cyrnarel, who shakes their head walks off on their own in response. "Do you need me to support you?"

"No. [Where'd they go?]"

"Finding a spot to camp. You need to rest, lethallin."

He reddens a little, shakes his head more vigorously.

"No--[I'm all right. Sorry for making noise. Will you tell Cyrnarel? That I'm sorry for making noise?]"

Mahanon squeezes his shoulder. "You're not alright," he says gently. "You need rest. It's not the noise, it's that you need to lie down a bit."

Jack gives him an anxious look.

"[Won't make any difference.]"

"What will, then? What can we do to help?"

"Nnnn." He tries a smile hoping it'll reassure Mahanon a little. "Don't know."

"How about herbal tea?" Mahanon's used to helping people out. Being the First in his clan means people tend to ask him for help before others. and he's familiar enough with trauma and sleep deprivation to tell that Jack's not doing so well. "Or would talking about things help?"

Cyrnarel darts back into sight and yells something in elvish before disappearing again.

"Looks like they've found a camp site."

"[You sound like Wynne.]"  Jack waves at Cyrnarel but it's too late, they're already gone again.

"Wynne... She's an enchanter, isn't she? Come on, let's follow them." He leads Jack to the campsite, which is only a few minutes away.

"[First Enchanter at Kinloch these days.]" He follows, taking his steps with exaggerated care.

"I haven't heard much about her, but she's an excellent healer, isn't she?" Maybe talking about his mentors will help Jack feel better.

"[A spirit healer. She tried to teach me, but I was never any good.]" He is smiling a little. He's always been fond of Wynne.

Mahanon smiles too. "I've always admired healers. It's not something I'm good at. Barriers and fire are my thing."

The spot to camp is a small clearing, with just enough space to fit in the two tents they've got. Jack probably can't hear it, but the elves can hear a source of running water not too far away. Cyrnarel's dumped their packs and the rabbits there, but is nowhere to be seen.

"[I'm all battle magi--where do they keep going?]"

Mahanon gives him a flirty smile. "Well, it means we're together alone now."

Maybe not the best time to hit on him, but maybe it'll help Jack's mood regardless. Mahanon hasn't been able to feel him out fully on this yet.

He snorts, though not angrily. "[You know who _you_ remind me of? Zevran.]"

"Are they a friend of yours?" Mahanon plops down on the grass with a sigh. He could take a few minutes to himself before setting up a tent.

Jack chuckles. The reason being that Zevran isn't a mage, presumably.

"[He's--yes. My very dear friend.]" He touches his earring briefly.

[Mahanon tilts his head. "Very dear friend."

He glances away, clearing his throat. "Yes."

Mahanon furrows his eyebrows. "Is this a touchy subject?" Is Zevran his lover? A dead friend? Dead lover? Someone who hurt him?

"Mm. No. Miss him." Jack glances back at Mahanon. "In Antiva."

"Ah." That didn't answer many questions, but Mahanon doesn't push it.

"So... We're here, alone, on a very pleasant evening..." He raises an eyebrow suggestively.

Some sensible voice in his head is yelling at him to stop flirting with the tired shemlen but he doesn't want to listen to it right now.

"[So we are.]" He half-smiles.

"It might be even more pleasant without our armor on." He bites his lower lip to make a point.

"[Won't Cyrnarel mind?]"

A laugh escapes Mahanon. "Only if he accidentally interrupts us. He's probably gathering firewood though, which will take a while." He grins. "A couple hours, maybe."

"[But he hates me. Won't he be angry you've sullied yourself with a dirty shem?]"

Hurt and surprise flash across Mahanon's face for a very brief second, both for the comment about Cyrnarel and the implication that he might be sullying himself. "He's a bit rough, but he doesn't hate you. If he did, he'd have tried to kill you by now." He shakes his head. "He doesn't even know most of the shems I've slept with. I don't think I even got half their names."

"[I'm sorry.]"

"It's nothing," Mahanon says with a wave of his hand, grin returning. "But I am curious if the rest of you is proportionate to your general size." Not like he hadn't seen Jack naked before, but he hadn't really let himself check the man out.

Hopefully he hadn't already killed the mood.

"[Never measured. Easy enough to find out, though.]" Cautiously, he reaches out, brushes a finger against Mahanon's hair.

 At least Jack's anxiety seems to have disappeared. He leans towards Jack, reaching out a hand to run down Jack's neck and chest. "And I am eager to find out."

"[Was this your plan all along?]" Jack teases. He hasn't thought much about sleeping with other people, but--they had talked about it. He knows for certain that Zevran will be taking his pleasure where he pleases. Alistair won't, but…that's Alistair. And Alistair doesn't mind, as long as he's as loved as he was before.

"Of course! I don't go saving just any human in the woods, just the attractive ones." He leans in to start giving some oral attention to Jack's neck.

Sex is a lot more casual for the Dalish than for humans, sometimes. Although Mahanon is much more keen on it than much of his clan, and he's rather aware of this. He's been sleeping around less since being bonded with Cyrnarel a few years ago, but he still jumps at some chances.

"Flattering," Jack murmurs. He can't sign with Mahanon this close, but what he can do is start unfastening his armor.

"Your body deserves it." Mahanon is quite happy to let Jack remove his armor. It's been a while since he's been with anyone but Cyrnarel.

"Just that?" He draws back just enough to remove Mahanon's breastplate.

He clicks his tongue. "I do like a man who knows his magic." He grins again, working at the buckles on Jack's armor. "You do know some fun spells, yes?"

"[Just the usual. Hot, cold...]"

Mahanon holds up a hand between them, letting a small bit of lightning spark between his fingers and tilting his head questioningly.

"That too."

Mahanon pauses for a moment with a look of wonder on his face. "You know... I've never slept with a mage before." He's unbuckled the top half of Jack's armor.

Jack tilts his head, a little incredulous. "[Really? We did it all the time.]"

He chuckles. "Mages among the Dalish are rare, and clans don't often meet up. When they do, the mages are often busy. Well, they tend to be busy. I've been caught sneaking off quite a few times. And it's hard to find a mage shem in a city. Not like I can sneak into a circle and organize an orgy or something, can I?" He tugs at Jack's shirt, gesturing for him to lift his arms so he can remove it.

"[That's true,]" Jack says before sticking his arms up in the air.

Mahanon removes his shirt and starts admiring Jack's chest with his hands and mouth. "I really do like fit humans. And elves, but..." He shrugs. "Size."

"Mm.." Jack shivers pleasantly and puts his hands on the sides of Mahanon's waist, thumbs meeting the laces of his binder. "Can I?"

"Yeah," he says with a nod. "You did say my tits were nice, after all."

"True." He begins to unlace it carefully, not all the way--just loosening it enough to slip it off. "Arms?"

Over the head is probably easier than down the hips, after all.

He lifts his arms as requested for Jack.

Jack slips it off, and takes a moment to straighten Mahanon's hair, which had gotten disarranged in the process.

Despite having uncovered Mahanon's breasts, Jack does not touch them right away, but instead bends his mouth to his shoulders and collarbones.

Mahanon lets out a breathy moan, placing one hand on the back of Jack's neck while the other reaches down to fiddle with the strings of Jack's breeches in a halfhearted attempt to remove them.

"Patience," he whispers, from just under Mahanon's ear.

Mahanon shivers at that, moving his second hand up to Jack's shoulder. "If you insist," he purrs.

He does.

He won't keep Mahanon out of his pants forever, though, and those lovely tits will ultimately get some attention as well.

* * *

 

It's been a long time for Jack, and once they are both sated and at least relatively clean, Jack crawls into his bedroll, practically dragging Mahanon along with him (assuming Mahanon wants to come).

Mahanon curls up contentedly next to Jack in his bedroll, quite happy with the way things have turned out and hoping that the human is able to fall asleep easily.

By the time Cyrnarel returns, it's starting to get dark, and they grumble quietly at the other two as they drop their firewood and start setting up a firepit, lighting it on their own and then sitting down to skin the rabbits. Mahanon's still awake, watching them with half-closed eyes and too comfortable to move.

Jack spends a little time simply blinking heavily at Mahanon, all out of words but contentedly so.

By the time Cyrnarel returns, he is--as predicted--asleep with his large, warm bulk curled around Mahanon, nose pressed to the back of his head. He half-wakes at the sound of Cyrnarel returning to camp, and peeks sleepily up at them from behind Mahanon.

Cyrnarel doesn't seem at all fazed to see his lover cuddling naked with someone else, but is a bit annoyed at making dinner on his own, considering he already caught the rabbits and doesn't even eat much in the first place.

He notices that the other two are awake and scowls at them. "Mahanon, you're putting up the tent. I'm not dealing with that thing tonight. Jack, you'll need yours up too. Looks like it'll rain."

Mahanon lets out a hum of agreement.

"Mmn," Jack says, only half understanding, and puts his head back down.

Two hours and many scowls later, the meat is cooked and Cyrnarel's tent is up, Mahanon still lying with Jack. They poke at Mahanon and Jack and inform them that food is ready before helping themself to it.

Jack manages to get himself fully upright again (pulling Mahanon up with him, as there's only so much room in a single bedroll), though he's bleary-eyed and still silent. He blinks at the food, processing, and then very carefully begins to scoot towards it, making no move to leave the bedroll.

Cyrnarel makes no move to bring any food towards the two and eventually Mahanon helps scoot towards the fire. Cyrnarel makes a comment in elvish and Mahanon responds with something that sounds snide or taunting but not malicious.

Jack simply doesn't respond, or really even bother looking at them. He does however still want dinner, so once they're close enough he reaches out past Mahanon to make himself a plate.

He eats more slowly than usual, in part because he's tired, and in part because…well, he's squished into a bedroll with Mahanon in front of him and it takes a little maneuvering.

But mostly it's that he's tired. Before he's managed to finish, both his plate and his head begin to slowly tip forward.

Mahanon eats quickly, aware that the human behind him could become a heavy weight at any moment, and he removes Jack's plate once the human starts to tip forward alarmingly. It's a good thing he's a strong elf, or else he might have fallen forward and gotten his hair singed off.

He slowly leans back with Jack in the bedroll; once Jack is lying down, he removes himself. He sets about to pitching Jack's tent on his own.

Jack squeezes his eyes further shut and makes a low whining noise, scrunching further into his blankets as Mahanon leaves the space.

Mahanon pats his head gently before pitching the tent, yawning as he does so yet showing his body off to Cyrnarel, who pointedly ignores him. Once it's up, he drags Jack and his bedroll into it and leaves again, returning with their bags and clothes.

He curls up next to Jack again, leaving Cyrnarel to grumble outside and set up the second tent on their own.

Jack has been half-awake, listening to the goings-on and thinking he should probably come out and help. Thinking is a long way from doing, however, and when Mahanon returns he just blinks sleepily and mumbles, "H'lo."

"Hi," he says, nuzzling his face into Jack's neck.

"Thought you left."

"Hm. You're warm."

"Mm. Jowan liked that. Had cold feet."

"Comparing me to old lovers, are you?" His voice is teasing, not accusatory. He rubs one hand on Jack's chest, playing with the hair there.

"Wasn't like that. Not Jowan."

"A friend you had in the Circle?"

"More…family."  He slips a hand to Mahanon's waist, just for a place to rest it, something warm to touch.

Mahanon hums in response. "You alright? You going to sleep tonight?"

"Dunno. Don't usually. Not much."

But he is awfully sleepy, and Mahanon is right here.

"…You stay?"

He nods against Jack's neck. "I'm not about to leave my warm, naked shemlen right now."

He snorts at that, but just snuggles closer. "Cyrnarel won't miss?"

"Nah. He'll be fine."

"'Kay."

This is a satisfactory answer.

"Sorry if I wake you."

"It's fine." Mahanon is actually more worried about waking Jack; his hallucinations have been back since his capture, which have made sleep difficult, but Jack doesn't know that.

"Mmhm."

He scrunches his head down a little so he can kiss Mahanon's hair, and squirms into a more comfortable position, rubbing his thumb gently in its place at Mahanon's side.

Mahanon sighs and relaxes, falling asleep easily and comfortably.

Sometime in the early morning hours he wakes again, rain pattering softly against the canvas of the tent, and his eyes flicker about nervously. His body stiffens and he clings tighter to Jack but tries not to wake him. The Warden needs his sleep.

Jack stirs a little, pats vaguely at Mahanon's head (he misses).

"Shh, Al'ster. 'S okay."

Mahanon doesn't say anything, letting Jack stay as asleep as possible. He's not shaking yet, at least, which he considers a victory. Jack doesn't wake, at least not yet, but he does eventually find Mahanon's head and settle into a rhythm of stroking his hair. Dimly, he registers that the hair is the wrong texture, but it's not terribly worrisome.

Mahanon whimpers into Jack's chest, trying to hide between him and the covers from things that he knows aren't really there. If he were alone he might light up the tent with magic, but he's not and doesn't want to bother Jack.

"Mmm…" He squeezes his eyes shut one more time, and then opens them, murmuring, "Alistair?"

Oh. That's not Alistair.

Mahanon keeps his head against Jack's chest, not looking up at him. He vaguely recognizes Alistair's name, but is a little too focused on trying not to panic to think about it.

"Mahanon? 'S wrong?"

He shakes his head, not otherwise responding.

"Mmkay." He squirms and wriggles until he can get both arms around Mahanon, pulling him close to his chest.

It takes a while, but half an hour later, Mahanon's body is relaxed again and his breathing is steady, no longer alert or afraid.

His thoughts are coherent again and he feels guilty for waking Jack. Jack needs sleep, not more problems.

Jack starts to wake properly on his own around dawn, and it's been a long time since he's felt pleasantly sleepy and been awoken by the sun. It's a little disorienting at first, and he has to pick himself up on one elbow and look around.

Inside his tent, not outside; must have rained. Mahanon beside him. There's a very slight pang that it's not Zevran or Alistair, but Mahanon is perfectly pleasant company, warm and cozy.

Mahanon's already awake--woke before dawn, as usual--but stayed beside Jack to make sure he stayed asleep (and, honestly, because it was quite comfortable.)

He grins at Jack. "Good morning."

Jack's face spreads into an answering smile.

"Hi."

"You slept all night." Mahanon wiggles his hips, though the action loses a bit of its impact since he's covered in blankets. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Yes." It's pretty rare after all. Even with Alistair and Zev, he sleeps better but not usually _through_.

"Hm. We'll have to do this again sometime." He reaches out a hand to stroke Jack's chest. "Or now."

"Already?" He chuckles. "Relentless."

"Hm." Mahanon leans in to start licking at his neck, but something hits the tent canvas and makes it ripple.

"Don't you fucking dare," Cyrnarel yells from outside, voice only slightly muffled. "Not while I'm in camp."

"Then leave!"

"No! We need to move on! I'm not gonna sit and wait while you fuck a shem!"

Jack jumps violently at the sound, and settles only slowly once he realizes it's Cyrnarel. Finally, it's enough to get him out of the bedroll. He grabs a blanket to cover himself with, sticks his head out of the tent, and snaps, "Don't do that!"

"What? Stop you from getting laid in the morning? We need to keep traveling, shem." Cyrnarel's tent is already packed away and they've got food already going on the fire.

Jack bares his teeth. "Hitting tent! Making noises!"

"How else am I supposed to communicate with you? Barge in on my own?"

Mahanon pops his head out of the tent, not bothering to cover himself. "Cyrn, [stop.]"

Cyrnarel bares their teeth as well, obviously not pleased. "I'm going to fill our waterskins," they say, still glaring at Jack. Mahanon grabs the skins from within the tent and hands them to Cyrnarel. "We're leaving in an hour."

"[That would be better!] Jack signs, frustrated. "[Or use your voice.]" He retreats back inside and begins to dress, red-faced and tight-lipped.

"Are you alright?" Mahanon asks, slowly dressing himself. He starts to feel like an intruder--this is Jack's tent, it's his space, and maybe Mahanon shouldn't be here.

"[I'm fine. They--spooked me, is all.]"

He nods. It would be odd if Jack didn't have trauma issues after the Blight. "They'll calm down. They just don't like getting yelled at. All they do is yell right back at you."

He's thankful Jack seems to have forgotten about waking up in the middle of the night. Or has just opted not to mention it.

"[I don't like getting yelled at either,]" he notes dryly, shrugging the armored robe over his head and reaching for his breastplate--the leather breastplate, so he looks like a Warden but not one of rank.

Mahanon chuckles. "Yeah. I dread the day you two get into a shouting match."

He dresses quickly in clothes and leather armor, opting to forego the binder for today to give his body a rest. He half-considers suggesting that they get each other off quickly, but frowns, figuring the mood's already gone.

"Do you have any destination in mind? Or are you just wandering?"

"[Wanted to go home.]" He pauses long enough to buckle on his bracers. "[Trouble is I don't have one.]"

"Oh. I'm... sorry." He knows mages have their Circles, but that might not really be a home for Jack anymore. The Dalish don't have permanent homes, but they have each other and their aravels, at least.

Jack shrugs. "[Tired of people always asking things of me. Of playing politics. Of being stared at.]"

"So you felt like wandering the Marches on your own?"

"Mmhm." He sits down to put his boots on.

"Well..." Mahanon coughs into his shoulder. "Unfortunately, if you keep traveling with us, you're definitely going to be stared at. And asked questions. And maybe treated rudely."

"[I've been in Dalish camps before,]" he says, smiling a little.

His eyebrows shot up. "I... Well, I guess it shouldn't be a surprise, that you've figured that much out. There's not many places Dalish like to go except between clans."

"[Nor so many places a shem gets stared at and asked questions.]"

"Do other shems not give tall, attractive shemlen attention and questions?" he teases. He's gathered everything he needs and stands near the tent flaps, staying inside so he can read Jack's hands.

"[I hardly know. Everyone knew each other at the Circle, and then I was a fugitive, and then I was an Arl. I don't know what it's like to just be a fellow.]"

"And now you're just someone wandering with a couple of elves."

"[Right.]"

He smiles. "Well, to me, you're just a friendly guy with a nice cock."

Wait, no, that didn't come out right. "I mean. You're my friend. Who I value." Better. Sleeping in must've harmed his wit.

Jack sputters a laugh, shaking his head.

"[I value you as well,]" he replies, still grinning.

"Well, there's food cooking, and I'd hate to let it burn. Knowing Cyrn, they might almost be hoping for that." He leaves the tent to grab breakfast, noting that Cyrnarel's tent is already packed.

Jack steps outside, lugging his things out along with him, and begins loosening the tent pegs. He is noting things as well:

"[You pitched my tent last night.]"

Mahanon shrugs, sitting down by the fire to eat. "You were half-asleep."

"[Did you pitch it around me, or put me inside?]"

"I dragged you by your bedroll. Can't pitch it around you since it's got a floor," he points out.

Jack stares at him for a long moment.

"[You could have woken me. I would have helped. Or at least gone in on my own.]"

"It's not a big deal. I didn't see the need."

"[Kind of you.]"

"You needed sleep. And you slept."

He nods. "[I…don't often sleep well. Many Wardens don't.]"

"I can imagine. You probably deal with a lot of shit." He grins humorlessly. "But you're in good company, I suppose."

Jack gives him an odd look, then snorts, smiling wryly. "[No one really knows anything about us, do they?]"

"Wardens spend their lives fighting darkspawn, and then darkspawn kill them." He shrugs. "Sounds awful."

"[It gets better.]"

"Like killing archdemons?" Mahanon leans forward, though. He can tell Jack's about to tell him something interesting, and while he's not particularly fascinated by Wardens, a lot of mages are Wardens, and he's interested in them.

"[That's the part where you die, normally.]"

Now he's confused. "What do you mean?"

"[Another secret. When a Warden slays an archdemon, they…go with it. Normally.]"

"Why?"

"[It--has to do with the taint. It's complicated.]"

"So..." Mahanon sorts this out in his head.

Cyrnarel returns, placing the filled waterskins on the ground next to Mahanon and giving him a quick kiss. They start helping Jack take down the tent.

"So you found a way around it?"

"[Apparently.]" He spreads his fingers, showing Mahanon the burn scars on his palms. "[Got out with this, and my life. But it's--a strange feeling. Something trying to tear your soul out of you, but not…succeeding.]"

He pauses to help Cyrnarel, with a murmured, "Thanks."

Mahanon isn't sure whether pushing might be going too far, but... "'Apparently.' Is that a guess, or do you know more?"

"[Oh, I know. But that part, I'm not telling.]"

Mahanon _tsks_ at him. "What, I sleep with you and don't even get to know your fun little secrets? I'm wounded."

Cyrnarel snorts. "You go about talking about sleeping with shemlen and Keeper Ariaril's going to flay you."

Jack chuckles. "Already said more than I should."

"There'll be room for secrets later," Mahanon says.

"Go eat, shem," Cyrnarel says, shooing Jack in the direction of the fire. "We should get going soon."

"Jack," he corrects, flat but not angry.

"Like I said," Cyrnarel says to Mahanon, pointing a thumb at Jack. "Keeper Ariaril's not gonna like this one."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Don't have to come." He doesn't usually _try_ to go where he's not welcome. He's done it several times _anyway_ but he doesn't _try_.

"I'd miss you if you didn't," Mahanon says.

"[That makes one.]"

Cyrnarel scowls at him. It's not that they really dislike him, but they also want to keep some of their pride, but not at the cost of hurting him. "So long as you don't try bedding me."

Jack's mouth quirks into a half smile, and he moves to get some food, squatting down near Mahanon.

"[Don't worry, wouldn't want to lose a finger.]" Or worse.

Now that everything's packed, Cyrnarel sits by the fire with them to wait. They'd rather pace, but they shouldn't waste their energy, Mahanon starts talking to them in elvish, and within a few minutes they're chattering away at each other furiously, almost fighting and both visibly upset.

Jack blinks hard, and gets awkwardly to his feet, stuffing the rest of his food into his mouth at once so that he won't appear to be fleeing (it is patently obvious that he is fleeing).

He takes a few moments to fuss with his pack, look around the camp for anything accidentally left behind, and scans the periphery for wild herbs.

Just because he can't understand the argument doesn't mean it's not awkward.

The conversation ends abruptly and both the elves stand and grab their packs, Mahanon putting out the fire. They pointedly don't look at each other, but Mahanon nods at Jack to indicate that they're ready to move on.

Jack looks from one to the other, clearly uncomfortable, but then shrugs and nods back. Regardless of conflicts and conversations, the road still needs to be walked.

He shoulders his pack. He can keep an eye out for herbs along the way.

* * *

 

Mahanon and Cyrnarel spend the day avoiding each other silently, barely communicating. Cyrnarel is particularly agitated, sneering at Jack for stepping loudly on errant twigs or tripping over rocks, while Mahanon is less expressive than usual. They barely stop for a cold, bland lunch in the middle of the day before moving on, and neither have said a word to each other or Jack by the time they find a clearing to camp in for the evening.

Jack doesn't ask, and doesn't tell--that is to say, he follows their lead and travels in silence, though he does make a particular effort to avoid Cyrnarel. He doesn't like being snarled at any more than anyone else.

He eats in silence, pitches his tent in silence, and retreats inside as soon as dinner is finished.

The silence breaks at some point as they start to argue in elvish again, voices rising in volume. There are a couple mentions of "shem" from both of them and "Jack" from Mahanon.

Jack sets his teeth. They're arguing about him--excellent. Cyrnarel wants rid of him, probably, and Mahanon is insisting, probably out of stubbornness, when it would likely be easier to just agree.

Jack would _miss_ his new friends, of course, but everyone parts ways eventually, and he's traveled alone before. He tries to ignore the conversation, letting his magic loose a bit and watching tiny lightnings course over his hands and burn out.

They both start to yell by the campfire, no longer mentioning Jack, until Mahanon yells one last time and they fall silent again. Cyrnarel heads to their tent alone.

Mahanon's options aren't very good at all. He can sleep in a tent with Cyrnarel--not very likely--he can ask to share with Jack, or he can stay outside. And he'd hate to impose on Jack, especially after the awkwardness they've put him through today.

He won't be able to sleep outside and will probably panic, but that's alright. He can deal without sleep for a night.

Once things have been silent for a while, Jack pokes his head out cautiously, thinking he might sit by the remains of the fire.

Mahanon doesn't pay attention to Jack, sitting and staring at the embers. It's taking a lot of focus for him not to jump at every shadow. Part of the reason he sleeps early is to avoid this. He hasn't been alone in the dark for a long time.

"?" It's the first sound Jack has made all day, but he's wary of talking lest it rouse Cyrnarel and spark another argument.

Mahanon tenses but doesn't turn. He doesn't want to come face-to-face with some awful yet intangible monster.

Jack frowns and sucks his teeth, then pats the ground twice, hard, to make a noise.

Mahanon whimpers, flinging magical fire into the firepit so that it lights up fully again and casting a barrier around himself. He still doesn't turn. Better to look at the fire.

"Mah!" he finally manages to call out, patting the ground again.

Mahanon hesitates, then turns to look at Jack, still tense and highly anxious. He looks ready to flee.

"[It's just me. What are you doing?]"

"Nothing." He winces as his voice comes out shaky.

Jack presses his lips together, then jerks his head.

"[Come inside.]"

He worries that this will be interpreted as some sort of side-taking, will only cause more tension in the long run. But that's no excuse to ignore someone who is hurting.

"I'm fine," Mahanon says. It's not worth bothering Jack over and he already feels guilty about this.

"[Please?]"

He hesitates. He really shouldn't bother Jack, but... It might just slow them all down tomorrow if he doesn't get any rest.

"Okay," he murmurs, letting the fire die down to embers again before walking over.

Jack ducks back inside, shoving his things around to make space for Mahanon. The tent is already warm, though it's hard to say if it's magical in nature, or if Jack is simply that hot-blooded.

"Sorry," Mahanon says. "I... don't even have my own bedroll."

"[We've shared before,]" Jack points out.

"I guess." He doesn't want to keep Jack awake, though. Or be uncomfortably close.

"[What's wrong?]" he asks bluntly, tired of circling the obvious.

"It's... complicated." Not that he won't talk about it, but finding words for things can be difficult. His eyes scan the objects in the tent, checking the shadows and nooks as thoroughly as he can without being rude and shuffling through them himself.

Jack nods, seating himself on the bedroll, and letting the small lightnings begin to roll up and down his arms again. They seem to naturally collect in his hair as well, making it stand on end.

Mahanon sits down next to him, near but not touching. "[What's that?]" he signs, but his hands are shaky, so he repeats it out loud.

"[Just magic.]" The sparks connect between his fingers and snap away into nothing as he signs. "[Lightning.]"

"What for?"

"Hmmn. [Doesn't have to be for anything.]"

"Oh." He doesn't really understand it, but that's okay.

He glances nervously at the tent walls as the wind brushes against it and subconsciously leans a little towards Jack.

"[Feels good. Do you want to see a trick?]"

"Sure."

The lightning dies and he turns his hands to face palm up. Slowly, like water condensing, tiny droplets of soft blue light gather on his fingers and pool in his palms. Then, as if gravity has reversed, they begin to float upward and hang in  the air above Jack's and Mahanon's heads.

A small smile pulls at Mahanon's lips as he looks up at the light and his shoulders relax a little. He's still tense, but a little less so.

"Pretty?" Jack doesn't sign, keeping his hands flat, palm-up.

Mahanon nods. "Yeah, pretty."

Jack nods, and hums a little under his breath, not quite a tune, but not quite toneless either. A few more droplets--this time golden--rise from his hands and forearms to join the ones already floating.

Mahanon scoots a little bit closer, leaning gently on Jack's shoulder. He's still shaking a little, but this is nice. Distracting. His thoughts keep wandering to fears and worries, but he likes this.

"It's easy," Jack murmurs, the lights gleaming oddly off his eyes. "Just listening."

"Listening? The lights?"

"To magic."

"Magic is nice." Mahanon would join in himself with some showy magic, but he's worried he'd set the tent on fire or something.

Realizing his barrier's still up, he releases it. He doesn't need it right now. Hopefully. It makes him feel safe, though.

Very slowly, Jack moves his fingers, in a pattern not unlike his usual flicking; several of the droplets cluster together and form into a small, palm-sized globe, swirling with golden and blue light. A quick, cutting motion, and the orb is sealed, and remains hanging above them.

The remaining droplets fall, disappearing when they strike the ground or Jack's and Mahanon's skin. They feel like very little when they fall, a tiny cool breath of air and then nothing.

Mahanon sighs, leaning more heavily on Jack now. He still feels like he's intruding but craves comfort.

"You're a nice shemlen," he says.

"[I try. Do you want to see my things?]"

"What things? Belongings or spells?"

"[Belongings.]"

It might help him calm down, but he'd rather dig through them all and check every little corner of the tent before he could really feel safe. "Sure."

He takes off his necklaces, and hands Mahanon the vial first.

"[This is my Oath as a Warden. An amulet made from the blood of the Joining, to remind us of our sacrifice, and of those who did not survive it.]"

That was concerning. "Those who did not survive it?" He held the amulet tenderly as if it were precious.

"[Not everyone makes it through the Joining. Just one more thing we're not supposed to tell you.]"

"Oh. That's... I'm sorry."

He shrugs, gently takes the vial back. "[Worth remembering.] He trades it for his earring, taking a moment to remove it from his own ear.  "[This is Zevran's.]"

"You mentioned him before. Someone important to you."

"[Yes. We are--like--like being bonded?]" Jack's not sure if it's precisely the same, and they've had no ceremonials. But it's a commitment nonetheless.

Mahanon nods, eyes widening with the realization. "Ah, okay." He should've at least asked about that before trying to sleep with him, he thinks.

Jack smiles crookedly. "[When he first gave it to me, he told me to sell it.]"

Mahanon turns it over in his hands. "Why? It's a gift, and you're an arl anyway. I can't really see you wanting for money."

"[I wasn't an arl yet, then. He didn't really want me to sell it, though.]"

"Oh?"

"[He wanted me to keep it. I had released him from his oath, but I asked him to stay with me of his own will, and he gave me this.]"

"Oh." He doesn't have anything to say in response to that.

"[I left him to guard the gates at Denerim. He was angry, at first.]" He takes the earring back, and works it back into his ear.

"I can see that." He'd probably be a bit angry if Cyrnarel left him to go to his probable death.

"[My wants, his--no matter. I needed him there. I could trust him there.]"

He nods. Zevran might have wanted to put himself between an archdemon and Jack, and that wouldn't have ended well.

"[Alistair came with me, though. He was made for it.]" He removes the locket, made almost more like armor than jewelry, and carefully opens it before handing it to Mahanon. Inside is a single rose petal, preserved with magic.

He lets the locket sit in his hand, not handling it otherwise because he's still shaky. "I've heard of him, but know little about him."

"[Well, he's not a mage,]" Jack teases gently. "[Just an ordinary shem. But he was nearly king.]"

"Also important to you."

"[The same as Zevran.]"

Mahanon chuckles. "You must be a lucky man, lethallin. Aside from the obvious... well, lack of luck."

Jack snorts. "[I am very lucky! I am not dead, after all.]"

"That _is_ a good thing." His smile tightens as he considers making some quip about Cyrnarel.

"[For years, at the Circle, everyone thought I would be tranquil by the time I was twenty.]"

That’s alarming. "What for?"

"[I had…spells. Fits. All the time. Screaming and kicking, setting fires.]"

"And they didn't think to help you instead?" His brows knit together in concern. "The Dalish care for our mages, even... even the strange ones."

"[They tried.]" He shrugs, frowning. They tried by pinning his hands and locking him up. He doesn't like to think of it. "[Nevermind. Anyway--Alistair gave me a rose. So I kept it.]"

Mahanon offers the locket back to Jack. "He couldn't travel here with you either?"

Jack shakes his head. "[I had to leave him at Amaranthine, to hold the arling and lead the Wardens. He's acting commander now.]"

"Well, he might not be king, but that's a pretty good position to be in."

"[He didn't want to be king. We talked about taking over the arling a lot.]"

"That would be a lot of responsibility, I suppose." Mahanon frowns. "Am I keeping you up? You should sleep."

Jack snorts. "[I hardly sleep. Not without Alistair or Zev.]"

"You should still rest. You were stumbling about the other day."

"Mnn."

"And I don't want to wake you up if you do manage to sleep." He moves to get up, intending to leave Jack alone.

"Wait?"

Mahanon pauses, looking at Jack questioningly.

“Stay?"

"No. I'll just be a nuisance." Better to let Jack rest some, even if it means Mahanon will sit up all night jumping at shadows.

"[I can't sleep alone.]"

Mahanon frowns. "You won't get much sleep with me twitching beside you."

"[Didn't bother me last time.]"

He cringes. So Jack _does_ remember that. "You shouldn't have to deal with my problems."

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Tch. [Alistair wakes me up five times a night. Sometimes it's nightmares, sometimes he just has to piss.]"

"I'll be fine, really," Mahanon says, failing to fight off a yawn.

"[If you leave, I'm just going to go out by the fire anyway.]"

Mahanon can imagine the pathetic sight he'd make then, scared of the dark out there. He lets out a deep breath. "Fine. I'll stay," he mumbles, looking guilty.

Jack just grins, a simple happy expression, and scoots off of the bedroll so they can go about actually getting inside it.

Mahanon lets out another sigh and starts to remove his clothes, then pauses. "Is this alright?"

"Mmhm."

Mahanon nods and continues undressing down to his smallclothes. He gives the tent one last anxious glance before climbing into the bedroll.

Jack stays where he is for a few moments, gaze distant, then he strips down himself and crawls in with Mahanon. A small gesture, and the glowing globe dims down--not enough for full dark, but just enough to sleep.

"I'm sorry you have to deal with... things. With my problems and with our arguments today. It isn't fair on you."

"Hmm," he says, running his tongue across his teeth. His eyes are gentle, though.

"It's just... problems. We both have problems and that causes problems. Which in turn causes problems for you. Problems."

"Problems," Jack echoes, softly.

"Yeah. We like to think we can fix the other's problems. But we don't. And we can't. And we watch the other suffer." He sighs sadly.

"I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't have to be caught up in it and I'm sorry for that."

"[Nobody said anything to me,]" Jack says blandly, though it's awkward to sign this close. It's also a _little_ disingenuous. He knows some of the arguing was about him.

"With us or with our argument?" Both unfortunately must have affected Jack.

"[About the arguing. I wasn't dragged in.]"

"You still had to deal with us being asses." He looks annoyed, like he's going to say more, but he doesn't. Venting to Jack would just give him more problems.

"Hmm," Jack says again, and kisses his hair lightly.

Mahanon pulls back a little, shaking his head uncomfortably.

"Sorry," Jack says.

He leans back towards Jack, but glances at the ceiling and above his head before relaxing again.

"You can talk. If you want to," Jack says.

"You don't need more problems."

"Don't mind."

Mahanon rolls onto his back to face the ceiling. Looking away from Jack, but not with his back to him. "Not even the Dalish accept our problems, you know. Not really."

"Why?"

"Because we're different, strange. They respect us, like I said, unlike your templars." He shakes his head against the pillow. "But they don't understand. We're weird. Less normal than most."

Jack squirms upright, so he can sign properly. "[Because you move and make those sounds?]"

He presses his lips into a thin line. "No. I mean, they don't really understand it, but they don't need to. But that's no stranger than someone who has a chronic cough. It's just there, nothing more to it."

"[What do you mean, then?]"

"Hm. Well. You know Cyrnarel has... You know they don't eat enough and you've seen their scars. Our clan doesn't understand that. They're things that look like they can be fixed, but they can't. So the problems persist." He shrugs. "If you see a solution to a problem and don't take it, that's weird. Not normal."

"[What solution?]"

"They could eat more. They could stop hurting themself. That's... I'm not saying it's easy, but that's how the Dalish see it." Mahanon bites his lip. "They passed out last week, when they and I were away from camp. I know they can't just all of a sudden get better, but they could at least try."

"Oh." Jack bites his lip, looking down. "[I'm sorry.]"

"Hm. Like I said. Problems."

He chews the inside of his cheek. "[Did I make it worse?]"

"Why would you think that?"

He turns his head almost all the way away. "[Heard my name.]"

Mahanon snorts. "Cyrn says a lot of things they don't mean. They pulled you into an argument you weren't relevant to because they wanted to upset me and make me feel bad. If not you, they would've brought up something else."

"Oh." He looks down, fingers flicking at the blanket.

"They don't have a problem with you, they're just... stressed. And don't deal with stress in good ways, and sometimes they lash out."

"[I understand.]"

"But they're still concerned for me. They want my problems to go away too, but they won't."

"[What are yours?]" He assumes it has something to do with all the jumping at shadows.

"Hmm." Mahanonlets out a sigh, still looking at the tent ceiling. "I see things. And hear things. And worry about things and where there might be things."

Jumping at shadows it is, then. Jack nods. "[Dalish don't like that either?]"

"I could take medicine for it. But that's... uncomfortable. My emotions become flat, dull. I don't feel _connected_. So instead I'm afraid and not always sure what's real and what's not."

"[I see.]"

"And Cyrnarel wants me to stop panicking so often. I can't imagine these things are common among humans."

"[I don't know about everyone, only mages.]"

"I haven't heard much about humans like us, mages or otherwise."

"[Mages get tranquil,]" he says bluntly.

Mahanon winces, finally turning back to face Jack. "Glad I'm Dalish."

"[That's why I was meant to be--to be tranquil. I mean--not because I see things. Because I'm strange.]"

"Because you speak little and had fits?"

Jack nods. "[Didn't speak at all when I first came. Jowan was the only one to stand up for me. Got kicked for it a lot, too.]"

"I'm sorry that happened to you. You would've been just a child then, right?"

He nods, shrugs a little. "[I know it's--not the same.]"

"It's still a difference." Mahanon grins. "Most Dalish clans are alright with those who don't talk. They may not sign the same as you, but aside from being human, you'll probably fit in alright when we reach Clan Vir'Elgar."

"['Aside from being human' is a pretty big one.]"

"Yeah, it is. Some won't mind, since Cyrn and I trust you." He chuckles softly. "You're going to be the first shemlen some of those children have ever seen."

"[Clan Vir'era got used to me.]" Once he'd gotten the werewolf situation sorted anyway.

"They're pretty friendly with shems, aren't they? They trade a lot, at least." He yawns. "So does Clan Lavellan. Cyrn still isn't used to humans though. Doesn't trust them."

"[They were--frightened, when I came. So they did not like me, at first.]"

"It was the Blight, of course they were frightened."

"[Well.]"

"Hm?"

"[The Blight…didn't help, at least.]"

"They had some bad experiences with humans, then?"

"[Maybe. I don't know. You--really don't know?]"

He shakes his head. "That's actually what Cyrn and I are doing right now. Clans travel and hide, which makes them hard to find. We can find them, of course, but we couldn't send letters. So we're traveling to see how the other clans are doing now that the Blight's safely gone. Usually this sort of thing would be saved for an Arlathvhen, but then we'd be waiting a few more years to see how everyone's doing."

"[Oh. Well. There were werewolves.]"

He blinks. "Werewolves."

"[Werewolves.]"

"I don't see what werewolves have to do with shemlen."

"[Well they were--stressed. About the werewolves.]"

Mahanon can't help the snort that escapes him at the word 'stressed'. "Sorry, that's--not funny."

"[I--helped them with the werewolves.]"

"And then they took a liking to you."

"[Exactly.]"

Same with the dwarves, really. Minus the werewolves.

"Hm." Mahanon yawns and checks the tent again.

Jack, who is naturally on high alert much of the time, glances after him. There's nothing there, of course, and he relaxes quickly.

"[Ready to sleep?]"

"Ready to try." He's not sure how much he can sleep while like this.

"[I won't let anything happen.]"

It's comforting, but only a little. "Thanks."

Jack thinks for a moment. "[You can wake me if you need me. I don't mind. Honestly.]"

Mahanon shakes his head. "No, you sleep."

"Mm." Jack lays back down. "Tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I miss Zevran and Alistair terribly. But you are a comfort, kadan."

"Kadan?"

"Ah. Qunari word, means--heart. Friend."

"I thought people spent more time together before using endearments." He doesn't sound upset though.

Jack frowns, knowing he hasn't quite explained it correctly. But it's not as if Sten _defined_ it for him.

"You are my kind and dear friend."

He smiles softly. "After only two weeks and a night together?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "Yes."

"Hm." Mahanon thinks as well, and then: "We could make that two nights," he says, placing a hand on Jack's chest.

"Tomorrow maybe?"

He removes his hand quickly, wondering if he's offended Jack. "Sure."

Jack doesn't look remotely offended; he's even smiling still as he squirms into a comfortable spot against Mahanon.

Mahanon's sleep is restless and he gets little more than an hour at a time, often glancing around the tent and clinging to Jack as he shakes. It's exhausting, but he can't seem to sleep well. For what it's worth, Jack wakes easily and settles again easily, and he's happy to wrap a protective arm around Mahanon when he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clan Vir'era is the name we came up with for the unnamed cursed clan in Origins; it's not an official name.


	5. Clan Vir'Elgar

Mahanon wakes later and grumpier in the morning than usual, having gotten little sleep, and Cyrnarel is actually up before him, a little early. Jack wakes at his usual time, but he stays where he is, still and quiet and cautious, not wanting to disturb Mahanon's rest now that he's finally at least mostly asleep.

When Mahanon wakes, Cyrnarel can be heard pottering around outside as they start cooking something. He snuggles closer to Jack, feeling like he hasn't slept at all.

"Hi," Jack whispers, quiet.

"Mph." Mahanon's eyes are barely open.

Well, all right then. He doesn't move.

Mahanon would be content to just lie there for a while, but they really should move on. They're not in a hurry, but there's a long road ahead of them.

He rolls a couple inches away from Jack and starts to stretch, not minding that it doubles as showing off.

Jack takes that as his cue and begins to dress, running his hands back and forth through his hair, and finally brushing it back into some semblance of order. It's beginning to get a little long, though, and he's starting to look scruffy.

Mahanon frowns at that, running a hand through his hair. It's not too long, but it could do with getting brushed. He gets dressed, foregoing his binder again (partly because it's in his packs and would take effort to find right now).

Cyrnarel hasn't interrupted them yet this morning.

Jack isn't particularly excited about the awkward silences and the yelling he's half expecting, but…he is hungry. He waves vaguely at Mahanon and exits the tent.

Cyrnarel's head snaps up to scowl at Jack as they stir the stew. There are dark circles beneath their eyes. They're wearing simple clothes, and a part of their left arm is bandaged.

"Food's ready, shem," they say tiredly.

Jack might be able to talk to Mahanon, but Cyrnarel? No. Best if he leaves it alone. He takes in their appearance and simply moves on.

"Thanks."

Mahanon leaves the tent, fully dressed, and serves himself some food. He and Cyrnarel exchange a few upset but quiet words in elvish, and then Mahanon says something kinder, which Cyrnarel scowls at. It doesn't escalate into an argument like yesterday and Mahanon sits next to Cyrnarel to eat.

Jack glances between them and lets out an audible sigh of relief. Then, hoping they didn't hear it, he fixes his eyes on his breakfast.

Cyrnarel looks up at the sigh and scowls some more but says nothing. They also eat nothing, despite Mahanon prodding them to.

Once the camp is cleared, Mahanon walks back over to Jack. "We should reach Clan Vir'Elgar later today, if all goes well."

Jack nods and shoulders his pack, though he seems reluctant to speak again now that he's out in the open.

The day passes slowly, Mahanon and Cyrnarel stopping every now and then to check trees and other plants for signs of the clan and getting frustrated at the lack of them.

Cyrnarel lets out a growl in the middle of the afternoon and drops their packs. "Either they're hiding or they've gone." They stretch their arms.

Jack finds a tree to lean against, looking around though he knows very well that if Mahanon and Cyrnarel haven't seen any signs, he certainly won't.

“Maybe they've moved on," Mahanon suggests. It's not unusual for clans to move, of course, especially with the Blight.

A twig snaps in the forest and he turns, hand on his sword, to see three Dalish hunters facing them. Two have bows and one has a sword, all drawn, but no arrows are nocked on the bows and the sword is angled towards the ground. They cast suspicious glances at Jack.

"Identify yourselves," the lead archer says, an older woman with black hair tied into a bun. Her vallaslin is a pale green.

Oh, here they are. Right…right here. Jack nervously shows his hands, unarmed (and free of magic) and attempts a small, placating smile.

Mahanon smiles happily, if tiredly, at the elves, relaxing his hand from his sword hilt. "Mahanon, First of Clan Lavellan, and Cyrnarel Istimaethoriel, Hunter of Clan Lavellan." He and Cyrnarel give shallow but polite bows.

"This is Jack, a friend. He's an apostate." That would indicate that he's not about to turn anyone in to templars. He's not certain whether or not Jack wants his full identity known, so he goes with that.

The archer blinks at the Lavellans and narrows her eyes at Jack. "And your purpose?"

"To check on other clans' well-being after the Blight," Cyrnarel says.

Jack just…keeps smiling awkwardly, giving a brief nod when he's identified as an apostate.

The elves seem to accept that, slowly putting away their weapons and gesturing for them to follow, Jack included. Cyrnarel grabs their packs before following.

The camp they come to is small, without any children, mainly consisting of hunters and a few crafters who look at Jack more suspiciously than the other two. None approach the visitors. The three are led to a pot of food on a fire and handed wooden bowls and spoons. "We'll get Keeper Arianil," the lead hunter says.

The food in the pot is a mix of rice, meat, vegetables, and larvae. Cyrnarel and Mahanon dig in immediately. Jack peers in, then shrugs and tucks in just like the rest, emptying his bowl in minutes.

Before long--but after having been given adequate time for a meal--another elf hops over to them and chats at Mahanon in elvish, inviting him away.

"Don't wait up for me," he tells Cyrnarel and Jack. "I'll probably be a while."

Cyrnarel only grunts in response.

And…now they're alone. Jack doesn't dislike Cyrnarel, and Mahanon swears that Cyrnarel doesn't dislike Jack, but somehow they never _quite_ seem to be on the same page.

Jack shoots Cyrnarel a cautious glance, then looks away.

Cyrnarel picks at their second helping of food, a smaller bowlful than previously. They might be eating, but it's difficult to eat a lot. It's polite to go for seconds, though. Not that they'll tell Jack.

They ignore the human, and no elves want to chat with them right now. Which makes sense--they're probably both busy and mistrustful.

Jack takes seconds anyway. He has no idea whether it's polite or not, but it's habit. He's nearly always hungry, and he's always taken what he could in terms of food; after everyone in Ferelden asking him to solve their problems, he figured the least they could do was feed him.

 _Especially_ after weeks on the road with Alistair's cooking.

Eventually Cyrnarel reaches their limit. They scowl as they hold out their bowl to Jack, offering him the rest (after the larvae, at least, have been picked out and eaten). Wasting food's no good, but neither is dumping it back in the pot.

Jack shrugs, nods his thanks, and takes it, dispensing it quite quickly; he hardly seems to have even slowed down after his first and second bowls.

Cyrnarel sits and stares at the fire. They could try talking to some of the hunters or crafters around here, but they seem intent on not talking to Cyrnarel or Jack, as they haven't yet been welcomed to the camp.

They could chat with Jack, but they're pretty sure Jack doesn't like them much, since he's been avoiding them.

"Good," Jack attempts, indicating his empty bowl. It's…well, it's dangerous. But better than sitting in silence.

They snort. "'Course it's good, it's Dalish."

"[Only had a little before.]"

They don't respond to that, just looking back at the fire.

Okay. Nevermind. Jack turns his gaze to the fire as well, sighing softly. It's going to be a long night.

At some point during their silence, a hunter comes up to chat with Cyrnarel in elvish, Cyrnarel happily recognizing them. The conversation carries on for a long while as they sit next to the fire, the new elf helping themself to some of the food as well, and Jack is completely ignored.

Jack, for lack of aught else to do, begins toying casually with the fire, teasing tendrils of it over to tangle in his fingers, then putting them out with quick clasps of his hands.

After a little over an hour of chatting the other elf leaves and Cyrnarel turns to Jack. "We should set up our tents in this area for the night," they say, calmer and more content than earlier. "We'll be traveling again tomorrow, and we're not welcome among the bulk of the clan."

"[Because of me?]"

"Because we're not of their clan. Mahanon gets a special welcome because he's Lavellan's First."

"Ah." Understandable, he supposes. It's all the explanation he needs, so he gets to his feet and sets about finding a good spot to pitch their tents.

Cyrnarel stands with a frown and gestures to him, leading him to a spot on the edge of camp some distance away from the others. They start to set up their own tent, but pause once the packs are off their back, chewing their lower lip anxiously.

"One tent can hold three people, and Mahanon might not even sleep at this camp tonight. It'll look arrogant if we set up two tents."

"…oh." Well. That's potentially awkward.

"Just use your own bedroll," they say, resuming setting up their tent and expecting Jack to help.

They don't want to bother Jack by sleeping in the same tent as him, but they don't just want to say that, either. But they're not about to let their own worries or pride insult this clan.

Jack half-smiles, not sure if that's a joke or not, and moves to help. This, at least, he can manage, though he may be adrift in the current situation. But he's set up many tents with many people, and he knows how it's done.

An alarming thought crosses Cyrn's mind. "I'm not sleeping with you," they say firmly, not knowing if Jack would expect that after Mahanon. "I don't sleep with shemlen."

Not that they've slept with anyone except Mahanon, but humans fit into that category neatly.

Jack barks a laugh. "[You'd have to have at _least_ flirted with me first.]"

"I've cooked for you, how am I to know you're not going to take that as flirting? Mahanon fixed up your leg, after all."

Jack squints. "[Why would I? Alistair cooks for me and I take it as an insult.]"

"You're a shem, I don't know how you flirt."

"[Same way as anyone else as far as I've seen.]"

They look at him in confusion. "Mahanon's gotten you gifts?" They glance down at their gloves as well.

"No-oo. [Gifts don't have to be flirting. They can just be gifts.]" The look didn't go unnoticed.

They mutter something under their breath about shemlen as they continue to set up the tent, but they're not visibly upset.

"[Unless it's something--like a flower, or jewelry. But sometimes not even then.]"

Once the tent is up, Cyrnarel starts moving their packs inside. Normally they would have removed their armor by now but they haven't.

"You need any supplies?" they ask Jack. They might not be welcome among this clan, but their coin would. Chances are the Dalish wouldn't want to barter with Jack though. Cyrnarel would rather their coin go to the Dalish than humans.

“[Flasks for salves and potions,]" he says after a moment's thought. And then, after a beat. "[Jewelry, good leather.]"

They scowl. Is he intending to give gifts to Mahanon or something? "Leather for what? What sort of jewelry? I'll need your coin for that."

Jack unbuckles his purse, humming under his breath.

"[For my--for Zevran. Not gloves, though. He has gloves.]" He chuckles. "[Antivan boots, Dalish gloves. A motley creature, my Zev.]"

They bare their teeth at him in disgust, but accept his money and walk stiffly away to find a merchant.

And Jack is left alone in the tent, wondering what it is he's done wrong.

* * *

 

Cyrnarel returns over an hour later, dropping a bag with leather and jewelry in it. There's enough leather to craft some decent armor and four pieces of jewelry. They don't say another word, dropping a second bag among their own things and setting up their bedroll as far away from Jack as possible.

Jack chews his lower lip for a moment, then cautiously says, "I'm sorry. For what I did wrong."

Even if he doesn't know what it was.

"Like you fucking mean it." The words are cold, harsh.

"I do."

They snort. "No."

"I do," he insists, almost plaintive.

They twist their mouth into a snarl. "' _Your_ Zevran'," they say. "' _Your_ elf'. A ' _creature_ '. I know what you shemlen are like. You're no different from the rest of them."

Jack flinches. Said like that, it sounds bad, very bad. He swallows hard, trying to make sure his voice won't shake.

"That is--that is not what I meant. I am sorry."

Cyrnarel says nothing, instead turning away from him to lie on their bedroll, still wearing their armor. They don't want to look at him right now. Jack waits for a long moment, then, mouth and throat still tight, so tight they ache, he exits the tent.

Cyrnarel stays in the tent, tense and upset, until they fall asleep a couple hours later, still fully clothed and in their armor. Mahanon doesn't return. Jack for his part, doesn't sleep, but sits watch outside the tent, gazing at the distant firelight and wishing he were closer. Wishing many things.

That Zev was here, that he could tell him it wasn't like that, not at all, that he'd never say such words again. That Alistair was here, to hold him and tell him all is forgivable. For Leliana, to sing him a song, and for Sten, to clash swords with him until he was so exhausted he could hardly stand, so that he could finally, finally go to sleep.

* * *

 

Mahanon returns in the late morning, a smile on his face and his hair uncharacteristically messy. The smile disappears once he sees Jack.

"Jack?" he asks, taking a seat near him. "Are you alright? Did something happen?"

Jack nods shortly, glancing away.

Mahanon frowns. "Something happened." He won't push too hard, but he doesn't like to see Jack distressed. "You haven't slept."

Jack shakes his head. No, he hasn't.

"Why not? Is it because I wasn't here?"

He won't look at Mahanon, but he signs. "[I said something awful. I didn't mean it, but it was awful.]"

“To who?"

"[Cyrnarel. Well--not _to_ him. It was about Zevran.]"

Mahanon reaches out to touch his shoulder gently. "He'll probably understand. You know how he reacts to things."

"[I don't think so.]"

"Why not?"

"[It was really awful.] Stupid!"

Mahanon shakes his head. "Really, he might have seemed upset, but it's probably fine."

"[No, that's not true.]"

Mahanon's expression is worried, but not at all accusing. "What did you say?"

"[He asked if I wanted anything, and I said--I said I'd like some leather, for Zevran. I was just thinking about him, thinking about how he wears all sorts of different things, and how he laughs, and--]" Jack breaks for a moment; finger-flicking isn't enough, and his hands flutter briefly near his ears before he resumes. "[I said, he's a motley creature, my Zevran, or something like that.]"

"And that bothered Cyrnarel?" Mahanon can't really grasp the point here.

Jack nods, face flushed with shame.

"[Said I was thinking of Zev like--like an animal, like I owned him.]"

"Oh." Mahanon looks at the ground. "That would--yeah, I see that."

Jack sniffs loudly. "[I didn't mean it. I don't think of him like that. I don't.]"

"I know you don't, lethallin," Mahanon says softly. "Cyrn might be upset for a bit, but he'll understand."

"[He won't.]"

"He will."

"[I tried to say I was sorry.]"

Mahanon sighs. "It'll just take some time and convincing."

Jack finally looks up, baleful.

"[I'm awful at convincing.]"

"Mm, well, I'm not," Mahanon says with a wink.

"[That'll just make him think I'm a coward.]"

"I doubt the thought will even occur to him."

"[You don't think so?]"

"He doesn't dislike you as much as it seems he does."

"[Every time it gets any better I do something stupid.]"

"You have only had two weeks for them to get to know you. They've never been around a shemlen this long before."

"Still." Jack sighs, dragging his hands back through his hair.

"Time, lethallin, just give them time." Mahanon nods towards their tent. "Are they still asleep?"

"Think so. [Maybe I should just…leave them be. Maybe I should just _leave_. I don't belong here.]"

"No, no, no," Mahanon says. "Unless... unless you want to leave." The thought is painful. They barely know each other, but he's grown rather attached.

"[No, I don't _want_ to. I was lonely before.]" Jack scrubs at his eyes with one hand, and goes on. "[I hate to think--I hate to think that I might sound that way to Zevran. Like I think I own him. I don't even want the things anymore. They feel dirty now, I've sullied them.]"

Mahanon shakes his head. "You can learn and move on."

"[I know. But I am so ashamed.]"

"These things happen." He stands up again, heading for the tent. "I'm sure Cyrn still likes you."

"Mm. Maybe."

Mahanon enters the tent to see Cyrnarel and shortly after they're both working to take down the tent. The Dalish are also packing their things this morning, preparing to move camp.

Jack finally rouses himself from his position to help, though he carefully remains as far as possible from Cyrnarel. He looks worse in the light, tired and red-eyed, but he's not looking for pity, so he avoids their eyes.

An elf with a staff strapped on her back jogs over to them once they're ready to go and starts chatting away cheerily in elvish with Mahanon. Cyrnarel rolls their eyes after a couple sentences, but the conversation ends soon enough and they leave.

Cyrnarel's still tense and avoids getting close to Jack, but doesn't look straight at him, and they start traveling again in silence.

Jack is more than happy to oblige Cyrnarel in avoiding him and lags back, being as quiet as he possibly can.

Mahanon looks back at Jack with concern, but doesn't say anything until they break for lunch. Mahanon has bread and meat for himself, and he nudges a bowl of Dalish food towards Cyrnarel, who grudgingly accepts it.

Jack will eat whatever he is handed, still keeping mostly to himself, though he's beginning to feel as mute as if he was back at the Circle.

Mahanon holds out some meat and bread for Jack as well. "You alright?" he asks.

"Mm. Mmhm." Jack takes it. At least nothing seems to ruin his appetite, even if he can't stop thinking of his blunder from the previous night.

Cyrnarel eats their food while looking at the ground, away from Jack.

Mahanon lets out a breath through his teeth, rubbing his forehead. It would be so much easier if those two could just get along.

Jack glances up at Mahanon guiltily, and signs a quick "[Sorry]" at him between bites.

Mahanon shakes his head. It's not just Jack's fault, it's both of them.

Jack sighs and goes unhappily back to his meal. Give it time, that's what Mahanon said. Even if he wanted to say something, he wouldn't know where to begin, so…he'll give it time.


	6. Call me Jack?

Nothing changes with Cyrnarel by the time they set up camp for the evening, and Mahanon looks exasperated, like he wants to punch both of them but can't because they both look too fragile.

Jack knows that this is weird. This isn't how he's supposed to act, he's supposed to be brave and forthcoming. But he's been silent all day and now the thought of speaking feels strange in and of itself.

So, he pitches his tent in more silence.

Cyrnarel doesn't want to be the one to break the silence, but they can see the glances Mahanon is giving them and they almost feel guilty for it. Mahanon helps them pitch their tent, also in silence.

"Will you two just talk?" he eventually says. He almost shouts, but remembers at the last moment not to make loud noises.

Jack winces, and his face stays like that, in a pained grimace, as he slowly turns to face the two of them.

Cyrnarel looks at Jack, equally pained.

"Talk! Spar! Yell at each other! Just..." Mahanon shakes his head and very, very quickly retreats into Cyrnarel's tent, leaving the two of them alone out there.

"Um," Jack says, glancing anxiously after Mahanon.

Cyrnarel glances back at the tent too, considering running back in after Mahanon, but then a thin yet sturdy layer of ice begins to forcibly seal the tent flaps closed.

They scowl at Jack, not looking directly at him.

Jack's eyebrows slowly lift at the sight of the ice, as if to say, _really_?

Cyrn snorts at that. "He's. A bit of an arse sometimes." The words are halting and uncomfortable.

"[Stubborn,]" Jack signs back, cautious.

"Sometimes."

"Mm," he…agrees? It's hard to tell. It's really just a sound.

Cyrnarel looks back at the tent again, sighs, and cautiously takes a couple steps forward. "You fucked up," they say. It's a statement, not a threat.

Jack sucks his teeth, nods.

"Mm--mm--yeah." He takes a deep breath, signs, "[Quiet too long. Hard to talk. Sorry.]"

"[You don't need to talk,]" they sign. Their hands are steady today. "[But yes, you fucked up, shem.]"

"[I did. I'm sorry.]"

"[And you expect me to trust you?]"

"[No.]"

That was unexpected. "[Yet you're still here. And you don't like me.]" No use dancing around things.

Jack blinks, surprised.

"[I like you fine.]"

Now Cyrnarel looks confused, "[You avoid me.]" He glances back at the tent for a moment. "[Is this a jealousy thing?]"

"[Well.]" He considers carefully. "[I don't want to--to bother you. I'm big and loud and you don't trust me.]"

They tilt their head. "[You can't help that you're big and loud, and I barely know you, of course I don't put much trust in you. But Mahanon does.]"

Jack hums tonelessly.  "[It feels like you're always angry at me for something.]"

"[I'm not.]" They drop their hands and look at the sky a moment before signing again. "[I get angry. You're a shemlen. I'm not always angry.]" It's frustrating, not being able to explain their emotions thoroughly, and they shake their head frustratedly.

"Hmm." Jack can't say he quite understands, but he's willing to work with it. "[You could try calling me Jack, maybe?]"

They scowl and look away, mouth pressed in a thin line. It's not like 'shem' is an insult or anything. But they look back at him and sign "[Fine]" curtly.

"[And I'm not jealous.]"

They laugh. "[Of course you're not, you're probably bigger than me.]"

Jack tries not to smile. "[Well. You asked.]"

The ice sealing the tent starts to melt away. "[Just...]" They sigh. "[Be more mindful.]"

"[I will.]" He breathes an anxious sigh.

"[Okay.]" Having run out of words, they glance back at the tent again and snort. They give one more look at Jack. "[Sleep well,]" they sign before heading in to sleep.

"[Goodnight,]" he signs back to the closed tent flap. His own tent is pitched, but he drags his bedroll out to the firepit and curls up there instead.

* * *

 

Mahanon comes out of the tent two hours later, wearing only pants. His hair is mussed up once more and he has some very fresh marks on his neck and collarbone, but his good mood turns to worry quickly enough.

"Are you alright?" He's asked that question too many times today, but it seems to need saying again. Jack doesn't quite look asleep, which is concerning, and though he's slept outside before it doesn't seem very comfortable.

Jack is in fact asleep, or at least mostly asleep, but he starts awake quickly, groping for his sword.

"Attack?" he slurs blearily.

"No no no," Mahanon says quickly, quietly. "Sleep. It's alright."

He'd been thinking about sleeping in Jack's tent so the human could fall asleep easier, but if he's managing on his own, that's good.

Jack relaxes a little, blinks up at Mahanon. "[You wake me?]"

"Yeah. Sorry. Go back to sleep."

"[Everything okay?]"

He nods. "Thought you might need help falling asleep." Now he just feels guilty for waking Jack.

"[That was kind.]" Jack smiles.

"Are you alright? Can you fall asleep again?"

"[I'm all right. I think so.]"

Mahanon nods again, relieved. "Sleep well," he says, before turning back to his tent.

"'Night." Jack lays back down.

* * *

 

Mahanon wakes up again shortly before dawn, yawning loudly as he leaves his tent in the morning. Cyrnarel's still asleep, as usual.

Jack is awake already, as is habit, washed, dressed, and sitting by the fire. With food, no less--he may not be as accomplished a cook as Cyrnarel, but he can passably roast a squab or three.

"Morning, Jack," Mahanon says, again only wearing his pants. He adds a bit of sway to his hips--he likes showing off. "Sleep well?"

"'Lo. Okay. You?"

"Mm, I slept fine." He sits down close to Jack, almost touching, and flashes him a smile.

Jack smiles back a little. "Not much of a cook. But maybe Cyrnarel likes the break?"

Mahanon chuckles. "Probably, considering they don't even eat much." He leans a little closer to Jack.

"Happy to see?"

"I am quite happy to see you," he purrs.

"Hmm. Me too."

Mahanon reaches an arm around Jack's waist, resting his hand comfortably on his thigh and leaning his head on Jack's shoulder. "Hm."

"Hmm," Jack agrees, pulling the squabs off the fire, offering one to Mahanon.

Mahanon stares at it blankly for a moment, then takes it, removing his arm from Jack's waist. Did the human even realize he was flirting?

"Thanks," he says before eating.

Jack beams at him, and takes one for himself. The other he sets near the coals so it'll stay warm for Cyrnarel.

After eating, Mahanon hooks his arm around Jack and leans on him again, slowly rubbing his thigh. And hoping not to be interrupted by "but food" again. Jack, licking his fingers, leans against him in return, liking the warmth and the closeness.

"So," Mahanon says, nuzzling Jack's neck. "Whatever shall we do until Cyrnarel wakes up?"

"This is fine." Jack squirms a little, humming.

"Hm?" He looks up at Jack's face, not sure what he means. "We could go to your tent."

"You want to?"

"If you want to."

"Don't mind."

Mahanon stands and pulls Jack towards the tent by the sleeve almost impatiently.

Jack chuckles. "Have to hold me after."

"Can do," he promises.

Jack grins and takes him inside.

* * *

 

Mahanon curls up next to Jack on his bedroll, warm and comfortable enough to almost start dozing off again. "You smell nice," he murmurs.

"Me?" Jack chuckles.

"Well, maybe not nice. But I like your smell."

He can hear Cyrnarel moving about outside, but they're quiet enough that Jack might not.

"Most say we smell like dog."

"Fereldans?"

"Mmhm."

"Can't say I like dogs much, but you don't smell like any I've smelled." Mahanon grins. "And you certainly taste better."

Jack wrinkles his nose, laughing. "Hope so!"

"Hm." Mahanon snuggles closer to Jack. "We might stop by another city soon. Don't need to see any more clans in the Marches."

Despite his calm tone, he can't help the hint of anxiety that creeps into his words.

"'S wrong?"

Mahanon sighs. "I don't want a repeat of last time, and Cyrnarel probably doesn't want to go in town at all because they'll worry about me. But I'd like a few days' rest somewhere." He cringes. "Actually, we probably don't have the coin for an inn."

"Oh." Jack frowns, pulling Mahanon closer. "Camp longer?"

Mahanon sighs. "We'll probably end up camping outside the town. I'd rather have a bed, though."

"Lay on me." Jack grins broadly, teasing.

Mahanon grins back at him and rolls on top of him easily, lying chest-to-chest on top of Jack. "Unfortunately, I don't think Cyrn will fit."

"Can fit. Top of you."

"Mm, I like the sound of that." He wiggles his hips and eyebrows.

"Don't think they would."

Mahanon chuckles. "I still like the thought."

"'Course."

"Hm." He lays his head down against Jack's chest, sighing contentedly.

"We are just friends, right?" he asks after a moment. Normally he doesn't sleep with humans more than once or twice, and he doesn't know how Jack is taking this.

"Think so." Jack hadn't really thought about it. He does feel close to Mahanon, but he feels close to many people without needing to be more than friends.

Mahanon nods against Jack's chest, feeling the larger man breathe beneath him. "But still friends, of course."

"Yes, very good."

Mahanon lies there in silence for a minute, enjoying a few more moments of closeness and comfort before he rolls off of Jack and thumps back onto the ground, bumping his nose. "Ow."

"Ah--okay?" Jack rolls over and watches Mahanon, concerned, and yet…trying not to laugh.

"Mph," he mumbles at the tent canvas beneath his face, then rolls onto his back, face screwed up. "Not doing that again."

"Ouch."

He stretches and pushes himself into an upright position. "Might want to leave soon." Not that he wants to leave the warm tent.

"Could still stay."

"And wait until Cyrnarel walks in to find us both like this?"

Snort. "Meaning camp." Not the tent specifically. Reluctantly, Jack rolls out of his bedroll and begins to dress again.

"But the sooner we move, the sooner we find a port city and get boat schedules for ships to Orlais." Mahanon seems content to just watch Jack dress for now.

Jack pauses, twisting back to look at Mahanon over his shoulder (it doesn't hurt the view of his back a bit, though it does warp the rampant griffons). "Ship?"

"Not like we can very well walk across the sea." He chews his lip. "Unfortunately, finding a ship might be difficult. We've got the coin, but..."

"Why Orlais?"

"We haven't visited all clans in the Marches, but Clan Vir'Elgar gave me news of the rest of them. We haven't heard anything from Orlesian clans yet. Might go to Ferelden afterwards, if we can afford it, or we might take a ship back up here."

Jack slips his robe over his head and reaches for his breastplate. "Ferelden now, ah?"

"Most clans have probably already left or sent word." He pulls on his pants, the only clothes he has in this tent.

"Oh." He turns back to face Mahanon, tightening his bracers.

"We also need to keep an eye out now that we're this far west. We're too close to Nevarra for comfort, which means way too close to Tevinter."

Jack’s brows snap down into an immediate frown at the mention of Tevinter. "Ah."

"Yeah." Mahanon shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Could run into slavers. Could run into them in Orlais, too. For all their insistence that they're better than Tevinter, Orlesian nobles still purchase elven slaves. We're going to need a trustworthy ship."

"Hnn. Careful."

He nods, moving to leave the tent, but he hesitates and turns back. "You don't think we're odd, do you?"

"Me? You? Odd?" Jack raises his eyebrows, as if to say, _look who you're talking to_.

"Like I said, even the Dalish consider us odd, and that's when we don't even mention our problems." He shrugs. "We're used to it."

"'Course you're odd. Don't mind."

Mahanon laughs a little at that, not expecting the first sentence. "I'm just... not used to this. The acceptance thing. Neither is Cyrn."

Jack shrugs. "[I wish it were easier for him to stay safe and fed. I wish you did not have to be afraid. But I don't know why I'd _like_ you any less.]"

Mahanon smiles softly. "I appreciate it," he says, and exits the tent.

Cyrnarel's sitting by the fire, picking at the half-eaten bird disinterestedly.

Jack follows Mahanon out a few moments later, straightening his skirts.

He didn't really expect much better. Just because he made breakfast doesn't mean it's a tasty breakfast, and Cyrnarel hardly eats anyway; he is hopeful, however, that it is the thought that counts.

"Morning," he murmurs.

Mahanon heads into his and Cyrnarel's tent to get properly dressed.

Cyrnarel holds the food out to Jack. "You want this, shem?"

"No, thanks."

"Hm." They hold it in front of themself, frowning.

"Taste bad?"

They shake their head. "No, it's fine, I'm full."

"Throw in the trees, for crows."

Cyrnarel snorts, considering the mental image of crows eating bird meat, but does so anyway. "You sleep alright, shem?" They glance at the tent Mahanon went into.

"Mmhm. By the fire."

"Right, forgot you do that."

"Mmhm." He sits down near Cyrnarel, but not quite next to them.

They nod towards their tent. "He tell you where we're going?"

"Orlais."

"Yeah, passing a couple shem cities on the way."

"Mmhm. [He wasn't sure if he wanted to stop.]"

"I can't stand shemlen," they say, turning back to the fire.

"Mm," Jack says, reddening slightly and glancing away; he's not sure if Cyrnarel means him, or is speaking generally, though generally seems the most likely. Still…he hasn't failed to notice that Cyrnarel still hasn't called him by name.

They look up again and tilt their head. "What is it?"

"Nn? [Nothing.]"

"Oh." They turn back to the fire.

Jack chews his lip, gathers his courage, and says it all at once: "Call me Jack?"

They blink. "Oh. Jack."

He grins. "Thank you!"

They blink again. "Oh."

Vaguely they realize that Jack might think them weird for their reactions, but they are the exact opposite of a morning person and forgot to buy tea from Clan Vir'Elgar.

Jack doesn't seem to care anymore; he's too pleased, and returns to watching the fire, flicking his fingers happily in the dust.


	7. Docks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I screwed up a bit on geography somewhere so... just go with it?

Cyrnarel and Mahanon are exhausted after all the time they've spent on the road, and both are wary as they approach the port city, remembering what happened last time they visited anywhere and keenly aware of how far west they are. They hope to find a ship leaving this week that they can afford--they probably can't even rent beds at an inn if they want to secure passage.

Jack is on edge, constantly scanning; he's leery of the same thing happening again, and even holds himself somewhat responsible for not keeping a close enough eye on things last time. As for an inn, he's been entirely mute on the matter; he has coin, it's true, but it's not infinite, and he's well aware that too much charity can be just as galling as too little.

The guards let them in without protest, only sparing a mildly suspicious glance, and the Dalish are thankful for that.

Cyrnarel's nose scrunches up once they enter, muttering something about shemlen, and Mahanon chuckles quietly in response.

The docks are on the complete opposite side of the city, taking them an hour to reach.

Jack is practically jumping at shadows himself by the time they get there. Not that anything untoward has happened, but he's on high alert, and the noise of a city sets him on edge anyway.

The dock is worse, and he wrinkles his nose, by way of cringing without _actually_ cringing and looking cowardly.

Mahanon's excited to be in a city again and around people, even though he's pretty wary. There's a lot of merchants wandering about the docks and lots of boxes being moved and stored.

"Oh," he says, almost losing his smile. "I don't know how to check ship schedules."

"[I can try,]" Jack suggests. He's never dealt with ship schedules before, but…well, he can try.

"Let's just get it quick, yeah?" Cyrnarel says, shifting restlessly as they glance about, clearly very uncomfortable.

"Okay," Jack says firmly, and for that one moment it's easy to see how people could have followed him into danger, even near-certain death.

A moment later it becomes much harder to imagine, because he just sort of…stands there looking around. He has no idea what to look for or who to ask.

"We could ask some of the dock workers," Mahanon suggests hesitantly. He might point or ask them himself, but he's not so sure that's a great idea. Both he and Cyrnarel have shifted their stances to look less bold, less threatening, although Mahanon's tics and both their vallaslin have drawn some attention, glances both curious and less friendly.

"[We could,]" Jack says, making no move to do so.

There's a fishing boat not far off unloading its catch, and between tossing bushels of fish down to a partner on the dock, one of the boat's crew is staring at the three of them as much as--perhaps more--than anyone else.

He's an elf, small but sturdily built, blond hair darkened with water, shirtless and dripping, and he's never seen Dalish before in his life.

Both elves have noticed the staring, but it's all uncomfortable for them. Mahanon might bother to stare back at some of the shirtless sailors if he didn't think it would make him look particularly suspicious, so he contents himself mostly by looking at them out the corner of his eye.

"We could split up," Mahanon says, but Cyrnarel shakes their head furiously.

"Not after last time."

"But there's barely even any templars here!" There isn't a Circle this far west in the Marches.

"[They're right,]" Jack chimes in.

Mahanon snorts. "Never thought you two would agree on anything."

Jack shrugs, wearing his blandest expression.

Cyrnarel appears more agitated now. "Let's just move, yeah? I don't like this city, I don't like these shemlen."

Mahanon sighs and picks a direction along the docks to start walking. Maybe there's a list somewhere, maybe one of the workers could help.

Once the catch is unloaded, Atlas takes a moment to belly down on the dock and rinse the worst of the scales from his hands and arms. After that he ambles down the dock, weaving between people--mostly humans, though he's not the _only_ elf here--sort of coincidentally toward the three strangers, not intending to speak with them but just wanting a closer look.

Cyrnarel gets an itching feeling like they're being followed, but Creators, they hate cities. It's hard to tell whether their instincts are right or not, and they're not about to look behind them suspiciously.

Mahanon frowns and looks at Jack. "What about those shemlen?" he says quietly, gesturing with a nod of his head towards some people moving boxes into a dockside warehouse. They've given the group a few glances, but none that seem worrying.

Jack looks at them, considering. "[I'll go. Wait here.]" Beat. "[Shout if _anything_ happens.]"

Dalish elves shouting? That would cause a scene.

"Alright," Mahanon says. "We'll just... stay here."

"[I mean it.]" Jack approaches the dock workers warily, mouthing words as he goes--rehearsing what he's going to say.

"Who the fuck does he think he is?" Cyrnarel mutters.

Mahanon gives him a reassuring smile, hooking his arm around their shoulders. "Our very own shemlen friend."

Cyrnarel grumbles some more at that.

"'Scuse me." The voice comes from behind them.

Cyrnarel spins around and out of Mahanon's arm, hands reaching down to their waist before they remember that drawing weapons would not be a good thing right now.

Mahanon turns around a bit slower, eyebrow faintly lifting as his eyes rake down the new elf's chest for a few seconds before moving back up to his face. "Hello," he says with a charming smile.

Cyrnarel recognizes that tone, but it also wouldn't be appropriate to whack Mahanon in the face right now.

"Whoa--easy there!" Atlas skips back at sight of Cyrnarel's posture, hands up, fingers wide and unarmed (though he carries two knives of his own, one at his waist and one at his ankle).

"I just happened to notice the two of ye looked a little lost, that's all. Is there somethin' I can help ye find?"

His hair is beginning to dry to coarse blond curls with just a hint of red. His ears are large, and stick far out from his head, but it's also apparent that there's human blood in him as well; his chin might be hairless, but there's a growth of golden fuzz down from his ears and to the lines of his jaw. His nose is crooked, broken more than once, and his eyes are bright blue.

Cyrnarel keeps a cautious posture, but relaxes a bit since this guy's an elf, not a human.

"Cyrn's harmless as a fennec, don't worry," Mahanon says, patting Cyrn on the head, and Cyrnarel mentally swears they'll make him pay for that one later. "We were actually looking for ship schedules. Wanted to find affordable passage down to Jader. Our friend there," he says, gesturing with his head towards Jack, "is asking those folks. Not quite sure who to ask for schedules."

"Well, I don't know what a fennec is, but I don't think I'd put me hand in a nest o' them if ye take my meaning."

He peers over in the direction Mahanon indicates, squinting a little; one of his eyes is off-kilter, and they crinkle at the edges from too much sun over the years.

"Ooh those're just warehouse men, they might know, but then again the might not. But I, on the other hand, know every boat that comes in and out of here."

Mahanon brightens even more and opens his mouth to speak.

"When's the next one to Jader?" Cyrnarel interrupts.

"Well, let's see…" He begins counting out on his fingers, naming under his breath first one captain and then the next--"won't want to travel with him 'less ye like sleepin' in bilge--" He nods shortly to himself. "Yer looking' at two days from now."

"Two days, great. What's the ship? Do you know the fare?" Cyrnarel asks.

Mahanon looks at Cyrnarel with exasperation. Just because this guy's a city elf doesn't mean they should be rude. "If you know it, that is," he adds quickly.

"Well I know the captain a little, captain Laver, decent enough sort for a shem. As for fare, I couldn't tell you."

"We can probably afford it," Mahanon assures him. Hopefully Jack could cover anything they're missing.

"Thanks, that's great, nice to meet you, goodbye," Cyrnarel says, gently pulling Mahanon a couple steps away from Atlas.

Atlas frowns. "Wait! Are you--are you really from--?"

Are they really Dalish, he means.

Cyrnarel bounces on their toes anxiously.

"From where?" Mahanon asks.

"Well--" Atlas flushes a little. It shows easily; he's fair-skinned, and it shows even under the freckles and the permanent fisherman's sunburn across his face. "From outside, I suppose."

Cyrnarel huffs and turns to watch Jack to see what he's up to.

"Yes? We're not from this city, if you mean."

"You're Dalish." He finally spits it out.

Jack…appears to have frozen in place about halfway to the warehouse workers, fingers flicking rapidly at his sides.

Cyrnarel considers calling Jack back over, but figures they'll just gesture to him when he turns.

"Oh," Mahanon says with a laugh. "Yes, we're Dalish. Aneth era," he says, a common greeting.

"Oh. Sorry, I'm sure it's very rude of me. I just--haven't met any before."

"It's quite alright," Mahanon says. "But I do find that many people like to explore just how far the tattoos go."

Cyrnarel keeps telling him that's an awful line, since his tattoos are all on his face, but he keeps using it.

"What?" Atlas squints, confused.

Cyrnarel snickers quietly, still turned to watch Jack.

"Ah, it's nothing." Mahanon regrets the line now, but it's not like he had much time to pick a good one. "You're a fisherman? I think I saw you at one of those boats."

"Aye, that I am. I do a little diving, too."

"Is that what's responsible for your remarkable physique?"

Atlas starts, then chuckles. "In large part, to be sure."

That's a good response, and Mahanon grins. "As you can tell, I'm new to this city. I'd like to... explore a bit, later, if you're not busy."

Cyrnarel has completely given up and is prepared to run over to Jack to escape this.

"Oh--well--I could show you the market square, the--the statues. And then there's dinner, later. You could meet my wife." He's testing the waters; is the mention of a wife going to throw off the handsome Dalish stranger?

That was a 'no' if he'd ever heard one. "Oh, I--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." He rubs the back of his neck nervously, tics increasing and a blush touching his cheeks.

“It's quite all right, really. I'm sure Moira would like ye."

"I'd love to meet her, then," he says, smiling again.

Cyrnarel taps his shoulder. "I'm going to go save our shem," they say before walking off.

Atlas grins, eyebrows lifting. "Now, you could bring your friend and your--pet shem, or whatever that is--along, if you'd like, and we'll just have a nice meal and chat. Or, you could leave them to find their own fun, and come alone."

And have a nice meal and chat, and a little more.

"The shem's my friend and the elf's my partner, actually," Mahanon corrects. "They'll be fine without me for the night."

"Oh, I see." Atlas considers making sure they don’t mind, but…well, the flirting was pretty obvious. If they minded, they'd have said something instead of scampering off to mind the shem. "Well, in that case--" he makes an ironic, sweeping gesture, "Where to first?"

"Hm." Mahanon thinks for a minute. "How about the markets?" He can't afford to spend any money, but it's nice to look. "Unless you know of any particularly nice places in the city."

"Well, you've already seen the docks, which are as I'm sure you've guessed, the jewel of our fair city," he drawls sardonically. "The markets it is."

Mahanon follows close behind. "My name's Mahanon, by the way."

"Call me Atlas. Truly a pleasure, Mahanon."

"With more pleasure planned," Mahanon adds with a wink.

"You're a bold one, eh?" Atlas chuckles.

Mahanon wants to say he's slept with the Hero of Ferelden himself. That's pretty bold. "I can't say I have a wide variety of reactions to shirtless, fit sailors."

Atlas laughs at that, head thrown back. "Well, maybe the docks really are the jewel of the city from your perspective, then. You coulda had someone handsomer, y'know. Not to say I'm not, but--it takes all kinds."

"None of them approached me like you did," he says. "Will your wife be joining us?"

"Quite probably; I like to think I know her tastes, but it's up to her in the end. I mean--if you're amenable, that is."

Mahanon chuckles. "The more, the merrier. Well, not always," he amends quickly. "But in this case, yes."

"She's, ah, pregnant, a little."

"Oh." He's not entirely sure how to respond to that.

"Is that…all right?"

"Oh! Yes, yes, that's fine. I've had sex with pregnant people. And while pregnant. It's fine."

"Oh. Well, that's everything I can think of, then!"

"Hmm." Mahanon looks about, but there aren't many onlookers. He places a hand on Atlas' shoulder, and while nothing visible happens, his hand gets very cold very fast. "How do you feel about things like this?"

He might be less bold if there were more templars about. As it is, he might be pushing his luck a bit much.

Atlas turns and gives him a long, sharp look. It's not an angry look, or even a fearful one, just…considering.

"You're a--"

Mahanon lets his arm fall back to his side, not really able to read Atlas' expression. "Is it a problem?"

"No, no--not to me, no, but--you do know what happens to mages in cities, don't ye?"

"That's why I'm subtle."

"Just, ah--let me talk to Moira first before ye do anything. It'll be all right, though."

"Of course! I won't do anything without asking, either." He lets out a brief sigh of relief that he wasn't rejected.

"Always wise." Atlas walks backwards so he can watch Mahanon as he talks. "I'd always heard that the Dalish looked down on their benighted city cousins, but that doesn't seem to be the case with you."

Mahanon laughs and rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, we're different. There's always going to be that sort of culture clash. We hold onto our history, while city elves either abandon it or hold different interpretations..." He shrugs. "My people hold history to be of utmost importance, so you can see where the negativity comes in."

He enjoys the view of Atlas' chest that he gets as the city elf walks backwards. "Sleeping with people tends to remove a lot of negative feelings."

"Abandon's an interesting word," Atlas notes, palming an apple from a fruitseller with the shopkeep none the wiser.

Mahanon hasn't the hands for stealing, nor the courage to do so as a Dalish. He eyes the apple for a moment, hungry, but not yet starving. "Some people prioritize the present over the past. I can't really blame them."

"No, that ye can't." Atlas tosses the apple.

Mahanon catches the apple easily, raising an eyebrow. "We've known each other all of half an hour and already I'm getting gifts? I'm flattered," he teases, taking a bite. At least it doesn't taste fishy.

"It's just an apple." And one he didn't even pay for at that. He grins; there's a gap between his front teeth, and a much bigger one along the side where a tooth is missing altogether.

"And still a gift. An honor, truly." Mahanon grins back, wiping the juice from his mouth.

"One does what one can."

"So," Mahanon says, looking about. "Any must-see spots around here?"

"Here, in the city? Not for our ilk." Atlas shrugs.

"Hm." Mahanon glances about a bit more. "I haven't been to many cities. Wycome and Starkhaven, a few times, but that's it. And half my time there was inside a house or inn anyway. Human nobles have pretty nice houses."

Atlas wrinkles his nose. "I just bet they do," he says disgustedly.

"Not a fan of shemlen?"

"Well--no. That's one way of putting it."

"Neither is Cyrnarel--the other elf who was with me. Me, I don't mind them much, but most of my interactions with them have been, ah... Not very wordy."

"I've met…a few…that were all right. As for the rest of them, they could die of a plague and I'd smile over me tea."

"Can't blame you, they've done some awful things."

"Done?" He snorts.

"Still do." Mahanon taps his forehead. "Dalish, remember? Seems we make for pretty good sport."

"Oh, it's undoubtedly less fun for them to go after the ones who live right in the middle of their cities. Practically a chore, but somebody's got to do it, right?"

Mahanon sighs. "At least there are a few good ones."

“A few," Atlas agrees grudgingly.

"Do you live on the docks?" Mahanon asks. He doesn't know if there are even houses there.

"No, in the alienage."

He nods; that makes sense. He falls silent as he follows behind Atlas through the market.

"You must be hungry, hey?" They're heading out of the marketplace and into a poorer, seedier end of town.

"A bit." The apple helped, but wasn't a full meal. Idly he wonders how Cyrn and Jack are doing.

“Well, supper should be up soon. Come along."

He follows Atlas down to the alienage, looking about excitedly at the city on their way. "You know, last time I had the chance to explore a city, I had a bag over my head. Bit of a shame, that."

"Why on _earth_ did you have a bag over your head?"

Mahanon laughs lightly. "I, uh. Some templars wanted to sell me." It was terrifying, but he doesn't like to dwell on that.

"Maker's breath. They really are scum." Atlas spits on the ground.

"Templars, at least."

"Templars especially."

"Yeah. If I never have to run into one again I'll be glad."

"Let's not think of them, hm? Think of supper, instead, and…other things."

Mahanon chuckles. "Should I expect fish?"

"Not tonight, thank the gods. Probably cabbage, though."

"Cabbage I can do."

"Maybe a bit o' sausage."

"I do like sausage," Mahanon says with an unsubtle glance at Atlas' crotch.

Atlas quirks an eyebrow. "Well, I hope ye like the sort that's for dinner as well. Come along, then."

Mahanon chuckles. "Food is food, long as it's not rotten."

"Now that's the truth." Not to say Atlas hasn't scraped rot off of vegetables a time or two in his life.

They reach the alienage--surprisingly far from the docks--and Atlas tosses a few nods at elves hanging about the gates, who shoot curious stares at Mahanon but say nothing.

The place is…about what you'd expect from an alienage. There are stray cats picking at trash in alleyways, rundown buildings, and a number of elves hanging around, chatting or gambling for small coin.

It might not be as clean and orderly as the rest of the city, but Mahanon still finds the alienage fascinating. He's barely had any experience with city elf culture. Run-down homes don't bother him either, as the most he's ever had is a creaking aravel.

He's a bit more comfortable with the stares here than on the docks, with fewer humans about, and smiles at anyone who catches his eye.

The reactions are varied: some smile back, some avert their eyes, and some even scowl. Atlas pays it no real mind, and a few of the scowlers relax when they see it's him Mahanon's with. He exchanges a few greetings, turns down an offer to drink, and then they're there.

His home is the lower floor of a building that looks like it's barely holding itself up, but it's clean inside and the oil lamps that light the place smell less foul than they might, the fuel having been sprinkled with sweet-smelling herbs. Under that, is the smell of cooking.

Atlas does something odd with the door before they enter, rapping a peculiar rhythm with his fingers, though there ought to be no need to knock on his own door.

Inside is a threadbare rug, a little furniture, and not a book to be seen.

Mahanon takes no notice of the knocking, unaware that it might be odd, and doesn't notice any magic on the door either, though he doesn't think to check. He takes a look around once inside, still smiling.

"Cozy little place you've got here." Maybe not as comfortable as it could be, but it's obviously lived in, which counts for something to Mahanon.

"Aye, well, we try." Atlas breaks off and turns toward the kitchen, which is around a small bend, calling, "Moira-darlin'! I've brought a guest for dinner!"

A cheerful voice calls back, "Oh, that's lovely, there's been a sad lack of meat of late, I hope they're nice and fat!"

Atlas laughs as if this weren't one of the oldest jokes in the book.

Mahanon can't help but laugh quietly as well, but blushes with slight embarrassment as he doesn't know how to respond to that. "Hello," he calls out awkwardly.

"Hmm…doesn't sound edible. Must be good-looking, then." A small, plump elf appears around the side of the wall, her hair tied back though stray curls have escaped around her face. She's paler than Atlas, or at least has spent less time in the sun, but her cheeks are flushed from cooking. Her eyes are green, and she seems to have all her teeth.

"Hello! I'm Moira, though I doubt anyone in the city would doubt it, with his shouting."

Mahanon chuckles at that. "I'm Mahanon. I ran into your husband on the docks. Or, rather, he ran into me as I stood there being lost. Nice to meet you," he says, holding out a hand.

"Well, now you're more lost than ever, so you might as well stay for supper." She shakes his hand briskly. Her eyes run over his vallaslin, but she doesn't ask.

"Thank you," he says politely. "Though..." he glances at Atlas, not sure how or when to bring up the topic.

Atlas gives him a blank smirk, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Though?" Moira puts a hand on her hip though she doesn't look displeased. She is visibly pregnant, though just starting to show a little.

Now he's blushing more, fighting back the temptation to look painfully at Atlas. "I was hoping to stay a bit after supper. It's not every day a shirtless man walks up to me, glistening in the sunlight, and starts to chat me up."

She nods, listening. "Mm…fair. Though, speaking of--" She points at Atlas. "You'll be puttin' a shirt on _now_. You're not decent to be seen at table. Go! Now!"

"Yes m'lady." Atlas gives her a mocking bow and disappears into the bedroom,.

"Now." Moira sits down on the edge of a chair, grinning. "You're more than welcome to stay as long as you like, dear."

"Thank you," Mahanon says, sitting on another chair. "So, you two are married?"

There are worse conversation starters.

"Yes, indeed. We got lucky."

"Lucky?"

"Arranged marriage. Most folk make it work, but not always this well."

"Ohh." He'd forgotten that was a thing. "I'm glad, then. I can see how that could turn out awkwardly. And congratulations," he says, gesturing to her belly.

She beams, placing her own hand there. "Thank you kindly."

"The Dalish don't have arranged marriages. I've always wondered what that might be like," he muses aloud. "My bonded and I chose each other."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. How long have you been together?"

"Four years now, and two bonded." He chuckles. "Well, he was trying to court me as far as six years ago."

"Oh, you really dragged it out. Worth it, I assume?"

"Absolutely. Wouldn't be bonded otherwise. Although hunters don't usually bond with..." He trails off with a frown.

"With?" She lifts her eyebrows, curious.

"Ah, nothing, it's a Dalish thing." Should've asked Atlas how his wife would react.

"All right. Listen--have a seat at table. The food should be ready in a moment."

Mahanon nods and moves to sit at the table, looking about curiously for Atlas' return.

Moira disappears into the kitchen and Atlas reappears a moment later, sitting down. It's a small table, so they'll be right on top of one another. He is wearing a shirt now, and has washed his face and at least attempted to comb his hair.

"Well, are ye getting' acquainted?"

"Your wife's a nice person. But, ah," he lowers his voice, "how does she feel about mages?"

"Oh! That." Atlas’ eyes widen. "Hold on. I'll--bring her up to speed." He hops up and strides into the kitchen, where he and Moira can be heard whispering; the whispers become agitated, though not quite audible, and then settle down into a lull.

Atlas comes in, looking a little off-kilter, but he says, "It's fine."

Mahanon's eyebrows knit together. "Is there a problem? With me, I mean?"

"No, no. It's not a problem. She thinks you're adorable."

"Adorable?" The blush comes back. He's not used to such compliments at all.

"Oh yes. But she's--curious, she's a very curious woman, is Moira."

"In what ways?"

"The thirsty for knowledge sort of way. A difficult thirst to slake, since neither of us can read."

That doesn't really explain anything. "I can read, and I can share my knowledge, if you'd like."

"She's going to be curious that you're a mage, is what I mean."

"Oh." He still doesn't get it, and that shows in his expression.

"Don't worry about it. Just…enjoy the food. She's a good cook."

Almost on cue, Moira reappears with a steaming pot, plates, and spoons, all expertly balanced, and places them on the table, sitting down herself.

"So," she says.

Mahanon's not sure what city elf meal customs are--do they pray to the Maker or Creators before eating? Do they do something else?--and watches the other two for cues. "It smells delicious."

"Thank you." She grins. And that seems to be enough for Atlas, who uses his sleeve to remove the pot's lid and reaches for Mahanon's plate, dishing his up first.

Mahanon takes the plate with a thanks but waits until the other two are served to start eating his food. He's surprisingly hungrier than he realized.

It's simple food, but decent enough, and most importantly hot. They eat in silence for a while; Atlas is ravenous after a day of hard labor, and Moira looks…thoughtful.

Finally, once things have slowed down a little food-wise, Moira smiles pleasantly at Mahanon and says, "I'm told you're a mage." Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp and penetrating.

He smiles back at her, placing a hand palm-up on the table. Frost crawls from the center to cover his hand quickly, and a delicate crystal of ice forms in the center. It's all done in under half a minute and the spell is obviously well controlled.

"You know I've never met a real mage before," she says, leaning in. Atlas snorts.

Mahanon lets the ice melt on his hand. "We can be a bit rare, I suppose. But I hear we are pretty unique to bed.”

Atlas complimented him on his boldness before. Might as well stick to it,

Moira looks as though she can't quite believe what she's seeing or hearing. "Oh, my."

Atlas covers his mouth, stifling laughter.

Mahanon finally turns his gaze to Atlas, tilting his head as if sighing, and stares at him.

He clears his throat. "Nothin', it's nothin', go on."

Mahanon continues staring, not buying it.

"He's being a fool," Moira says gently. "Pay him no mind. Never could keep his big, fool mouth shut."

"Moira--"

"We hardly know this man, Atlas! I mean, I'm sure he's fine, but--well, you just never know, and now here you are, _laughin'_."

"If you've got secrets, you don't have to tell me," Mahanon says. This whole thing just feels awkward now.

Moira smiles. "It's all right, it's not your fault. And I suppose I am curious. You see--well. I'm, ah. I'm a mage myself."

"Oh!" His eyebrows go up, but he grins. "It's nice to see another mage around. I rarely see any aside from those in my clan."

"Well, and the only other place would be the Circle." She wrinkles her nose.

"Hm, yeah. Circles sound awful." And templars are terrifying, as he learned previously.

"We mostly send our mage children there just as the shems do, but--well, my parents didn't like it. The alienage where I grew up used to shelter runaway mages now and again, and one of them taught me enough to get by."

"Given I met her for the first time on our wedding day," Atlas cuts in, "she couldn't know if it'd be safe to tell me. She held out for over a year, it was quite a shock."

Mahanon bites his lip. "Literally?"

"Luckily, no, but she did ice over most of the kitchen puttin' out a grease fire."

He chuckles. "That's one way to do it."

"Luckily I'm not the sort to sell my own wife out to shems, not for all the pearls in the sea."

"It's a shame that anyone would."

"It is."

Moira sighs, setting the lid back on the pot. "Folk fear us, I suppose."

"I don't scare easy, myself," Atlas says.

"Well, scariest thing I've ever done is..." Blood magic. Well, that's almost exactly what the templars look for anyway. "...shock an aravel with lightning. On accident."

They look at him blankly, and finally Atlas ventures, "What's an aravel?"

"Oh. Um." He looks at his hands, trying to find the words. "I think you call them... landships? They're giant wagons with red sails. We use them to transport stuff and sometimes for shelter."

"Oh. I hope it didn't catch afire." Atlas looks concerned.

"It's actually quite sturdy, thank June. But the scolding I got from my mothers, that was embarrassing."

"With two mothers, I imagine it was."

Moira scoffs. "Bet your hat on it."

"And the Keeper. Who's my mother-in-law and mentor." Mahanon chuckles, shaking his head. "Things get a bit awkward when half the clan knows you've had sex in an aravel."

"What's a keeper?" Atlas winces a little at his own ignorance.

"The leader of the clan." Mahanon doesn't mind the ignorance and loves to share information about his people. "They lead, with advice from the hahren, or elders, who preserve our lore and language and share it with the clan. The Keeper is always a mage, and clans usually have a First or a Second, apprentices to the Keeper who will take over should anything happen to the Keeper. If a clan doesn't have enough mages to function properly, another clan typically sends one of their mages to take the required position. I'm my clan's First."

"Wait--" Moira frowns. "Your people are _led_ by mages?"

"Yep! No templars or anything. Though, after the aravel incident, I think Keeper had some doubts about me." He's not very serious about that last one.

"My gods."

"It's a bit different than cities, yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: There is no threesome scene. We ended this one here and moved on to other things.


	8. Wolf

Cyrnarel turns and leaves Mahanon speaking to the fisherman. They walk up to Jack, who's gotten a few more stares in the past few minutes from standing and stimming anxiously, although many staring people have sated their curiosity about the Dalish and gone back to their work.

"Jack," they say quietly, approaching him. Not a loud noise and not a sudden touch, which they figure wouldn't be very welcome. "You alright, shem?"

Jack does start a little, but not violently. He's pale and a little sweaty, but he licks his lips and tries to compose himself when he sees Cyrnarel.

"[I'm sorry, I don't know what happened. I couldn't--can't do it.]"

They shake their head. They've never been that anxious over talking to people, but they recognize it anyway. "It's alright. Some guy came up to us and said there's a ship to Jader in two days. Might be able to afford it." As they talk, they point a thumb over their shoulder back at Mahanon and Atlas, who are starting to walk off. "Figured I'd save you from having to ask someone."

"Oh. Thanks." He blinks. "[Where are they going?]"

"Hm?" They look over their shoulder. "Oh. Probably gonna fuck."

"[Is that safe?]"

They wrinkle their nose. "Not as safe as I'd like, but there's not many templars in this city, and the guy's an elf at least."

"I guess."

"He'd say we're worrying too much. But that's the guy who would and has fucked a templar." They sigh. "You want to, I don't know, go set up camp again? We can't afford an inn and there's no use impulse buying at a market."

Jack makes a disgusted noise at the thought of Mahanon sleeping with a templar. "Camp," he agrees.

Cyrnarel leads the way back through the city, being watched closely as they pass through the wealthier and market sections of town. They've almost returned to the outer gates when someone in the crowd rudely bumps into them.

They don't take any particular notice of the person--a blond human man--nor of the fact that their coinpurse is now missing.

Jack spots it, just barely, from the corner of his eye. He barks a wordless cry, and lunges after the stranger.

Cyrnarel turns after him, startled, and grabs him by the sleeve. "The fuck, Jack?"

"Thief!" he wrenches his arm away.

"Do you want the guards on us?!" they ask, voice rising as they glance about, but they don't reach for Jack again. If any guards took notice--and the crowd is definitely parting and taking notice--they could land in jail for the night. Or worse.

Jack draws up, red-faced. "[Took your purse!]"

The thief's getting away through the crowd, nobody bothering to stop him, and Cyrnarel stands there indecisively. If they lose the money, they can't get to Orlais. If they chase the thief or let Jack chase him, they might suffer from the attention.

Jack practically dances on the balls of his feet. "[He's a thief, I have the right, the guard will probably thank us!]"

"They'll thank a Dalish for taking a coinpurse from a shem?" The thief is almost out of sight.

"[They'll thank a Warden for taking it from a _thief_ come _on_!]"

He wants to bolt so, so badly, but he won't leave Cyrnarel alone in a strange city.

"Then go," they say, a little harsher than intended. They'll just make it worse if they get involved.

He goes, like an arrow loosed from a crossbow, a spell gathering around his hands as he runs.

Cyrnarel notes the magic around his hands and starts to worry.

Maybe it won't hurt if he... tags along some distance behind. For curiosity's sake.

The thief hasn't noticed the pursuit yet.

Jack waits until they're in a less crowded area, and then he looses his spell.

It's…not a terribly _large_ rock he throws, really, but it's still a rock, traveling at supernatural speed and distance.

The thief is completely unprepared and lets out a cry as he's hit by the rock. He stumbles, then turns a corner and continues running past a couple of guards.

Damn. Jack had better advertise his intentions: he shouts, "Thief!" again.

The guards stop him regardless, one of them holding a hand up as a stop symbol, both of them with a hand on their swords. "Halt," one of them commands.

Jack draws up, glaring. "[That man is a thief, and he's getting away!]"

They look at each other, not understanding the signs. "Sir, please calm down and stop chasing this man." The thief has stopped not too far behind the guards, a nasty grin on his face that the guards can't see.

Jack takes a deep breath, and-- _calmly_ \--points. "Thief. Getting. Away."

One of them looks back at the thief, who's dropped the grin and looks concerned now. "He's trying to nab my coins!"

The guard turns back to Jack. "How about you stop lying? Jerry's an upstanding citizen, well known around here."

Jack sneers. "Oh? How much he pays you?"

The other guard steps forward, pulling their sword out an inch. "Jerry, go home," they call out over their shoulder.

"Look, we don't take kindly to accusations like these. Troublemakers like you, they get sent to prison. Now, if you were a knife-ear you'd be there already, but since you're not, we'll tell you one more time: Calm down and follow the law. Get out of here and we won't have any problems."

Cyrnarel can't hear what's going on, still back before the corner as they noticed that Jack had stopped. They're hanging about in thin, chatty crowds.

Jack, furious at the injustice, can almost feel Spellweaver, _wanting_ to be in his palm, humming for it. His fingers twitch, and it's a very near thing.

But if he kills these two, the rest of the guard will be after him, and they'll have to leave the city in a hurry, and they don't even know where Mahanon _is_ right now.

The cost would be higher than lost coin. He lets his hands fall loose, then raises them in appeasement.

"All right. Okay. No trouble."

The guards loosen the grip on their swords and nod at him as Jerry flees. "Always like to hear that."

Jack gives them one more hard, flat look before turning away.

He looks very much like a human stormcloud rounding the corner; his hair is even throwing sparks.

Once Jack's back in sight, Cyrnarel rushes over to him. "Magic. Stop. Now," they whisper firmly, trying to get him to stop before anyone notices.

Jack sucks in a deep breath and the sparks die. "Sorry."

"What the fuck was all that?" They're very anxious now, but they start leading Jack back to the city entrance

"[I didn't get the money back.]" And he looks about ready to do murder over it, but sadly all the people he would have murdered have been left behind.

They look at him seriously. "Don't go chasing after people in cities. It'll just get you in shit. You're lucky nothing happened."

"Pah." He shrugs as if something is stinging his shoulders, still angry.

They sigh, hand going to where their coinpurse used to be. "I'll have to, I don't know, sell furs or something, I guess. We don't have enough coin for all of us to travel."

"[Would it be enough if I stayed behind?]"

They look at him with shock. "But don't you want to come along? I mean, you've traveled this far..."

"[Of course I would like to stay. And I have never been to Orlais.]"

"Then you're not staying behind."

Jack blinks a couple of times, processing this, and…also processing the sudden, odd lump in his throat. He swallows it down and sucks his teeth, nodding.

"[I can sell things, too. I am good with herbs.]"

They shake their head as they walk through the gates. "No, you don't need to help. This is my fault and I can handle it on my own."

"[It is not your fault.]"

"I should've been more aware of my surroundings."

"[It can happen to anyone. Anyway, I _want_ to help.]"

"You don't have to." They look pretty upset at this point.

"[I know I don't have to.]"

They continue looking upset as they lead him further away from the city to find a spot to camp.

"Cyrnarel?" He's cautious, but he ventures it, once they're well away from the walls.

"Yeah?"

"We'll get there."

"I know we will," they growl, snappier than intended.

"Sorry."

Cyrnarel sighs, but doesn't apologize, moving on to find a spot to camp. They're really more upset with themself, but don't want to admit that

Jack stays quiet, shy of talking to Cyrnarel while they're in a mood. He pitches his tent in silence and goes in search of firewood, returning with two large, dry branches and a handful of kindling.

Cyrnarel sits about outside their tent, watching Jack when he's at camp. They're hungry, tired, and frustrated, and would rather just lie down with the headache they have, but it's still the afternoon.

Jack starts the fire a _little_ overzealously, but manages not to completely fry the kindling. "I catch dinner?"

In his capable hands, it'll more than likely be pigeons again.

"You don't have to," Cyrnarel says, pushing themself up again with visible effort. "I'll catch something."

Jack tilts his head. "Sick?"

They scowl at him. "No. I'm fine."

"Me too! I catch food."

"No, you sit and watch camp so we don't get fucking robbed again."

"You do that."

"No, I'm going to hunt."

"Why?"

They point at their vallaslin, exaggerating the motion. "I'm a hunter. You're a shem."

"Shems hunt. All the time."

"And how much did you hunt in that Circle of yours?"

"None. [Got those birds, though.]"

"And like I said, I'm a hunter. Been tracking animals ever since I was a kid." Their words are more aggressive than they intend, but they're a hunter. They are the one who's meant to provide.

"Okay. You hunt breakfast."

"Dinner."

"Stubborn."

But not as stubborn as Jack, who dives into the trees, walking with an exaggerated sneak purely to irritate Cyrnarel.

"Get your fucking ass back here, shem!" they yell, running over to the trees.

It's too late, Jack is gone. And once he's done playing around, he actually moves with relative quiet. He may not be as talented a hunter as Cyrnarel (not even comparable, in fact) but he does have a certain knack with animals, and he's learned everything he could about life on the road since leaving the tower.

Still, he's gone rather longer than Cyrnarel would have been. But when he comes back, he has two rabbits, and pockets full of nuts and greens to boot (all safe to eat).

Cyrnarel yells at Jack as he runs off, not as loudly as he could have normally but very ticked off, and they sit in front of their tent picking and tearing apart grass for a while.

When Jack gets back, they're lying on their back in the grass, staring blankly at the sky. They've removed their armor and gone shirtless since the evening is warmer than usual, leaving them in only their pants.

Jack hums a wordless greeting and sits down to skin and clean the rabbits. Again, he isn't graceful, but he knows basically what he's doing and doesn't tear or contaminate the meat.

Cyrnarel sits up and pulls one of the rabbits to them, intending to skin it themself, then scowls. They have to get up to get their skinning knife.

"I have it. Shell nuts?"

"Fine," they say, dropping the rabbit back on the grass in favor of the nuts. It means they're doing something, at least.

"Alistair made horrible stew. All the time. Horrible."

"I hope that's not what you're trying to make." At least Cyrnarel had the sense to take half the spices from Mahanon's stock.

"Never again."

"Hm." They continue shelling the nuts wordlessly, hands shaking, and a couple of times the shells scratch their skin, once hard enough to break the skin.

Jack gestures with his knife. "Look sick."

"I'm not fucking sick!" they snap, glaring at him with teeth bared.

He shrugs. "Shaking."

"I'm fine. Not sick."

"Fine." Maybe they'll at least eat a little. Jack isn't close enough to them to feel comfortable pressing them about it. He sets the rabbits up to roast, humming tonelessly.

They finish shelling the nuts and lie back down on the grass, exhausted after that despite how little effort it should have been. Their stomach growls at the smell of food cooking but they aren't interested in eating.

Jack collects the kernels and wraps them in a large leaf, setting it in the coals; the leaf is aromatic, and a strong, herbal smoke rises from it.

His humming begins to sound a little more musical, though it doesn't quite hit the point of being a song. He's not much of a cook, but he's…serviceable. It's not too terribly different from herbalism, and he likes the rhythms and routines of it; it's soothing.

Some of the greens he's collected are herbs, and these he uses on the rabbits. It won't be as tasty as Cyrnarel would have made it, but at least it won't be completely bland. The nuts will add some flavor as well.

Even knowing Cyrnarel will probably refuse, Jack dishes up two plates, his own significantly larger (he's nothing if not practical--and hungry).

He sets his own plate aside, and very carefully and delicately, deposits Cyrnarel's on their chest, looming over him long enough to say, "[Brought you something.]" Besides the food, he means.

Cyrnarel moves the plate onto the grass beside them before lying back down again, and they make a vague questioning noise at Jack's words. They're visibly tired and their stomach growls loudly.

Jack produces his leaf, filled with nuts--a few go onto the plate, followed by three familiar looking larvae.

"[I know it isn't the same, but…]"

"Hm." Cyrnarel doesn’t offer the food more than a cursory glance, staring back up at the sky.

Well…they'll eat it if they eat it. Jack retreats before he gets verbally bitten, and sets to work on his own plate with his usual gusto.

It's only a few minutes before Cyrnarel sits up and starts to eat, glaring at the plate as they do so. The larvae are the first to get eaten, but they seem upset that they're eating at all.

They eat all the food, having been particularly hungry, and almost fling the plate away from themself in anger, curling up facing away from Jack.

Well…it's better than nothing. Jack quietly gathers the plate and buries the bones. It's still not terribly late, so he digs his herbalism supplies out, carefully unwrapping and assembling the delicate glass parts, humming again.

Cyrnarel’s anger tires him out quickly once again and he lies exhaustedly on the grass. Vaguely he considers moving to curl up next to Jack--he likes contact a lot--but he'd rather keep his pride for right now. Instead, he rolls over to watch Jack do whatever it is he's doing. It makes Cyrnarel feel a little less lonely, at least.

Jack shoots him a brief smile, but he's focused on his work, flicking his fingers--and even flapping his hands a little--between tasks to keep himself moving.

The scent is strong, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Mostly astringent. Jack watches the color closely, and wafts the steam toward his nose often.

Cyrnarel doesn't interrupt, but does start picking at grass again as they watch.

Eventually they turn back over to face away. Watching someone do things without them is, in fact, a way to feel even more lonely and negative. Not that lying on the ground is doing much for their pride in the first place.

Jack watches them for a moment. He's not sure how to invite them to keep company without also offending them, so--having made enough blunders for the day--he stays quiet, transferring his potion carefully into a small flask.

They roll back over to face him, instincts yelling that baring their unclothed back to a human is a really bad idea. Idly they scratch at one of their scarred arms.

"The fuck are you making?" they ask eventually, tired of the silence and craving at least some attention. Despite the phrasing, their tone isn't hostile.

"Lyrium draught. Tricky stuff."

They mumble something about mages in response to that, too quiet to be understood, and keep watching.

Jack begins another one, pulling on a pair of thin moleskin gloves to handle the lyrium dust and removing them once he's measured out the correct amount. Then water, a few other herbs, and heat. Just the right amount, in just the right spot.

"You like traveling about?" Not a very creative question, but they want to talk, and Mahanon's not here to talk to.

"Hmm. More like…don't like _staying_."

"Why not?"

"Bloody ground hurts feet," he says cryptically.

"You think Orlais's ground isn't bloody?"

"Don't care about _their_ blood."

Their expression sours, but they have the tact not to snap at him as harshly as they could. "You don't know shit about Orlesian history, do you?"

"Only they occupy us."

"You don't even know about the Exalted Marches?"

He frowns. "Yes, I know that."

"So you just don't give a fuck about elven blood." Their voice is tired, not hostile, and they turn back to face away from him again.

"I do, always. But I mean--blood _I_ shed."

They don't respond, still lying with their back to him. Sure, they shouldn't get upset over a small misunderstanding, but it still hurt and sometimes they're petty.

"Never mind." It's useless to try to convince Cyrnarel of…anything, really, let alone talk about anything actually meaningful. He turns back to his potion.

After a while Cyrnarel starts sniffling a bit and covers their face with their hands, cursing themself internally as they try to stay quiet. Of all the times to get emotional, having their back to a human is not the time. Should've just moved into the tent in the first place.

_Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask--_

"Cyrnarel?"

"The fuck do you want, shem?"

"...Nothing."

They're more tense now, but remain where they are, still making sounds. Their body shakes with their stifled sobs and they bite their hand to try to stop it.

"I'm sorry."

"What the fuck for?"

They should probably turn to face him so he can sign, but they're still bitter.

"Made you sad."

They sigh heavily. "No, you didn't."

“Why sad?"

They make a sound but don't answer the question.

"Mm." Jack takes the potion off the heat; it'll ruin it, but what's a little lyrium dust. He lays on the ground right where he is, looking at the sky.

Cyrnarel curls up more, making themself look smaller. They know Jack's moved, but he hasn't moved towards them, so there's nothing to worry about.

They scratch their arm a bit more, which is loud with their dry skin. They should probably just retreat to their tent already before they make things even more awkward with Jack.

"You ever worry you're going to fall off?"

"What?"

"The earth. Into the sky."

"No?"

"Dwarves worry about it."

"Okay." Their voice is a lot smaller than usual.

"They don't dream, you know. Sounds strange."

"Lucky."

"Maybe."

"Hm."

"Oghren started dreaming after Joining," Jack says.

"Sounds like shit."

"He dreamed evil pants trying to eat him."

"Better than most dreams."

"Darkspawn too," he allows.

"Shit dreams."

"Uh huh."

Cyrnarel goes quiet again, no longer crying but still feeling awful. They miss Mahanon. If he were here, they'd have someone to chat with and hug and be comforted by.

"Wish I could help."

"You can't." He can, but they're too proud to ask a human for help.

"Well. Let me know."

They let out a sigh and curl in on themself a bit more. They should be doing something productive--hunting, for example--but they're just tired.

"Cyrnarel?"

"What?"

This is going to be awkward and possibly end in a tongue-lashing, but he thinks he ought to say it anyway.

"I--care. About you."

They snort at that. "You're a shem." Shemlen don't care about elves.

"So?"

"You're a shem and you killed a fucking archdemon."

"…so?"

"So why the fuck would you care about me? Because you've fucked my bonded?"

"No, not why."

"Then you've got no good reason."

"Why do I need reason?"

They let out a frustrated sound and turn to face him again. Their eyes are red, but they've stopped crying. "Do I look like the sort of person someone like you cares about?" Their expression is a mix of anger and confusion.

"Yes."

They scowl, but don't turn over in case he wants to sign. "I'm not."

"[Yes you are.]"

"Why?"

"[You're my friend.]"

Cyrnarel shakes their head. "People don't care about me."

"[Mahanon does. I do.]"

"You're a Warden--you're a fucking hero --and I can't even care for myself. I do this shit!" they say, holding up one of their arms. "You have no reason to care about someone who's weak. I don't know why you're trying."

"[What's weak? I don't know what that means. I remember hearing Alistair weeping in his tent at night. I know why Zevran came to Ferelden. I hold them no scorn, and why should I?]"

They sneer at him. "I'm a hunter, and you don't think I'm well enough to hunt. That's weak."

"[No one is well all the time.]"

"And when have I been well?"

"[You feed us all the time.]"

"And I have not been well."

"[Nor have I, nor has Mahanon. Do you scorn us?]"

They scowl more. "Nobody has deemed you two incapable of doing what you've been raised to do."

"[Maker, Cyrnarel, it was one night! It's all right, I don't care!]"

They grunt and turn back around to face away from him.

Jack sighs, assuming he's messed it up again, and squeezes his eyes shut, watching the colors burst behind his eyelids.

Cyrnarel's still hurt. They're angry at themself for being unable to hunt right now (and not even noticing the thief earlier) and at Jack for pointing out anything in the first place. And they're pretty sure Jack's just lying to make them feel better.

Things would be so much easier if Mahanon were here. Or anyone else, really.

Jack, feeling quite miserable himself (and longing for his own loves) rolls onto his own side, reaching for his locket for comfort.

After a while, Cyrnarel turns onto their back to look at the stars as night falls. It feels strange, doing that with only a human nearby. A human he's probably made feel very awkward.

"I'm sorry," they say. If nothing else, they can at least apologize for their uselessness.

"What for?"

"For not being helpful and not accepting your words."

Jack rolls over. "It's okay." He still has the locket open in his hand, stroking the rose petal with a finger.

"Hm." They want to argue with him about something, but that would be unfair.

"[I am lonely.]"

They only see him signing out of the corner of their eye, as they're watching the sky, so they turn their head to look at him. "What?"

"Lonely." He indicates himself, snapping the locket shut.

"Oh," they say quietly. There's a brief moment of hesitation. "Me too."

"Yeah." Jack smiles, though his eyes are sad. "[Mahanon makes it easier. Talks between us.]"

"He likes to talk."

"Mmhm. [I miss my people. Most are gone, or dead.]"

"Your people?"

"[Just--the people I knew, traveled with. My friends. More like family sometimes.]"

 “They died?”

"[Not all. Most went their separate ways, a few dead. Many more dead that I did not know so well.]"

“Ah. Well. Sorry about that.”

He sniffs. "[You kill a demon, it doesn't give you a sword for a heart. They build an ugly statue, but that doesn't make you stone. Maybe easier if it did.]"

 “Shit’s not fair.”

"[And what good did it do for Jowan? They won't even tell me where he is. I begged them, _begged_ them to let him go. He's probably tranquil, if he isn't dead. Closest thing I had to a brother.]"

 “I’m... sorry.” They push themselves to sit up fully to better face him, touching a hand to their head to brace against the dizziness. “Why tranquil? He do something the templars don’t like?”

"No mercy for maleficars. [He was a blood mage.]"

 “Oh. Yeah. Templars don’t like that, do they?”

"No. [He was a good person. Doesn't matter.]"

 “I’m not even a mage and templars terrify me.” They spit towards the fire. “Fucking hate the Chantry.”

"Me, too. [We were under attack from darkspawn once, and we'd gathered the survivors in the city's chantry. The revered mother had the nerve to ask if I'd tithed. I told her I hadn't and didn't plan to.]"

 “Shemlen are greedy fuckers.”

"[We are, aren't we.]"

 “Hm.” On one hand, Jack really isn’t. On the other, they don’t want to be the one to absolve Jack of whatever guilt he feels for being human.

"Hm," he agrees.

Cyrnarel stands up and stretches, still a bit shaky and not at all in any shape to do anything requiring effort, but they can’t stand just sitting about doing nothing anymore.

“I’m gonna go hunt something,” they announce, moving towards their tent to get dressed again.

"Can I come?"

 “No. Watch camp.”

"Okay."

They come out of their tent fully dressed in leather armor and armed, stifling a yawn. The longer it takes for them to make back the money they need, the longer they’re making the other two wait.

"Be safe."

“I don’t need your condescension, shem.”

* * *

 

They leave Jack alone at camp, not returning until shortly before dawn.

Jack's curled up asleep outside, by the fire. His distillation kit is still out, and he hasn't even dragged out his bedroll, though he's unarmored.

Cyrnarel scowls at how dangerous that is as they limp into camp, breathing heavily. There’s dried blood on their hands and a dead wolf thrown over their shoulder, most of its fur intact. They’ve bandaged one of their legs over their pants.

They drop the wolf down on the opposite side of camp from Jack and plop down next to it, hissing as their shoulder aches from the motion. They immediately start skinning the body.

Jack starts awake at the sound of the body falling with a grunt, frightened and disoriented. Spellweaver is in his hands in moments as his eyes dart, looking for danger, forehead and upper lip beaded with sweat.

His eyes land on the wolf, and he stares for a moment, not quite understanding that it's dead. Finally, he registers Cyrnarel and the knife and breathes again, relaxing a little.

"You hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. You sleep." The knife is unsteady in their hands but they don't damage the fur as they skin the creature.

"Didn't mean to sleep." He half-crawls half-scrambles over to where Cyrnarel is skinning the animal, looking at it pensively. "Wonder where wolves go, when they die."

"Falon'din guides them into the Beyond," Cyrnarel says matter-of-factly.

"Oh. That's good. Where's Beyond?"

"It's that one place you go where you dream. Mages can go there consciously. I suppose you've got another word for it." They grimace and grit their teeth as their shoulder hurts again.

"The Fade. What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"You're hurt."

"I'm not hurt." They're a competent hunter, damnit.

"Lying."

"Go the fuck back to sleep."

"Put something 'the fuck' on it."

They ignore him and continue skinning the wolf. The effort hurts their leg as well, but they work to hide any sign of pain.

"[Is this _all_ because I caught dinner?]"

They point their skinning knife at the fur, which is only partly off the wolf. "Selling furs for coin."

"[You know that's not what I mean.]"

They frown. "I don't."

"[You're hurt, and you're pretending you aren't.]"

"I'm not hurt," they repeat stubbornly.

"[See?]"

"What is it you want from me?" They're irritated now, on top of tired.

"[For you take care of your wounds.]"

"I'm fucking fine." If they weren't exhausted and half-out of it, they might listen to his words, but right now they're intent on proving themself and being contrary.

"Lying. [Shout when you've changed your mind, or bled to death.]" Irritated himself, he stands up and retreats to his tent.

"Not fucking lying," they growl, and continue to skin.

It takes them about an hour to finish, and they slice their fingers a few too many times on the knife, but once they're done they start a fire and set up the meat on it. There'll be too much meat, but they can stick the rest of it in a stew for later.

They sigh and stare down at their knife while sitting by the fire, the blood wiped off of it.

Jack is entertaining himself inside his tent, making lights with his fingers and trying (and failing) to do fancy coin tricks.

Cyrnarel grimaces as they remember that, right now, they're pretty much covered in blood.

"Shem, watch the camp, yeah? There's meat on the fire," they call out in the direction of Jack's tent as they stand.

Jack sticks his head out. "Okay."

* * *

 

Cyrnarel returns two hours later, clothes mostly dry and free of blood, carrying their leather coat over one arm. They've bandaged their left forearm, which was uninjured earlier, and there's a remarkable bruise on their right shoulder. A bandage can be seen wrapped around their leg through the new hole in their pants.

Jack has cleaned up his herbalism supplies, and is sitting with his knees drawn up, arms around them, gazing into the fire. He half-looks at Cyrnarel and grunts a greeting.

Cyrnarel sits down on the opposite side of the fire, picking a small piece of meat to eat. The meat is tough, but edible, and they belatedly realize that they completely forgot to season it.

They blink blearily at the fire once the food's eaten. They're really not a morning person.

Jack picks at it as well, though it hasn't been all that long since they last ate. He doesn't speak, though he doesn't look upset or hostile either.

Cyrnarel lies on their back in the grass, a headache starting to form, though their shoulder aches as it touches the ground; it probably needs something on it to keep the swelling down.

They _really_ hate mornings.

"You can go back to bed."

"But it's morning."

"But you didn't sleep."

"Doesn't matter. Rather hunt than sleep."

"[You have to sleep sometime.]" Jack pulls a wry face. "[I would know.]"

They make a sound. "Don't want to sleep."

Jack blows a breath. Every time he suggests something, he feels as if he's sticking his neck out and waiting for an axe to fall.

"[Come with me? I mean--I mean--I don't want to _sleep_ with you. Not like that. But.]"

"What?" They don't quite get what he's suggesting.

"[Just to--to lie down. It's easier, sometimes, if someone's there.]"

They lie on the grass in silence, mulling it over. Someone else's presence there sounds really appealing right now, but their pride is yelling no.

But they might be tired enough to bite their pride for once.

"Pull any shit and you're dead, shem," they say, as vitriolic as they can manage after an exhausting, painful night of no sleep, which is not very vitriolic at all.

Jack is shocked, but he recovers quickly.

"Of course. [Perhaps we can sleep with an unsheathed blade between us, like knights in tales.]" It's gentle teasing. "[Tent, or out here? Darker inside, and I can make a little light, not as bright as the sun, but bright enough to keep out fears and shadows.]"

"Tent," they say, pushing themself up and standing slowly. They gesture with their head towards their own tent. "I don't need lights."

Their body language is very wary. Reasonably, they know they can trust Jack, but he's still a human.

"Okay." Jack treads carefully (both physically and metaphorically), well aware he's being invited onto Cyrnarel's private turf, and that this is not to be taken lightly.

Cyrnarel heads into their tent and flings their coat into the back as they kick off their shoes with a yawn. They take off their shirt but leave their pants on--not the most comfortable things, but they'll sleep quickly enough regardless.

They curl up in their bedroll with their back to Jack, resting on the side with their uninjured shoulder.

Jack sits for a moment, then follows their lead, removing only his shirt, and after a moment's consideration, rolling it up for use as a pillow. He lies down near--but not too near--Cyrnarel, his back to them as well.

Cyrn grumbles something, then lets out a sigh. They're already thrown out their pride today. "I don't mind snuggling," they say. "But I'm never fucking saying that to you again."

"Hmm. Won't tell."

He hesitates, and then very slowly and cautiously, slips inside the bedroll with Cyrnarel, careful not to make sudden movements. It takes a little adjusting, but Jack can fit himself and _Alistair_ in a bedroll, so someone half his size is hardly a concern. Once he's settled, chin resting lightly against the back of Cyrnarel's head, he murmurs, "Arms?"

"Arms are fine." There's a blush, but they might kill Jack for pointing that out.

Arms it is. He slips one around Cyrnarel's middle. "Sorry if I wake."

"It's fine."

They're out in ten minutes, breaths slowing quickly. Their mouth is parted slightly and they drool a bit onto their pillow.

It takes Jack a little longer, but watching Cyrnarel sleep isn't unpleasant, and feeling a sleeping heartbeat, breath moving up and down under his arm, is more soothing than any song or tale or herbal tea.

He falls asleep not long after. Fortunately for Cyrnarel's hair, he does not drool.

* * *

 

Mahanon returns a few hours later, helping himself to some of the meat and making a face to himself at the fact that it's wolfmeat.

It takes Cyrnarel a while to wake up again, but eventually Mahanon wandering about camp makes enough noise to wake them up. They make a sound and lean back against Jack, eyes still shut.

Jack makes a small sound too, but he's relaxed enough not to start violently. He readjusts his arm a little and buries his face in Cyrnarel's hair.

Cyrnarel freezes, suddenly aware that the person behind them is not Mahanon, and they roll over to bite Jack in the shoulder, hard.

Well, Jack's awake now. He howls, grabbing at Cyrnarel's hair to pull them back off his shoulder, nearly as panicked as they are.

They clamp down harder, drawing blood, but their head is peeled away from Jack's shoulder quickly, and they move to get away from him, trying to get his hand out of their hair.

Mahanon pushes the tent flaps open, a spell ready in his hand, and takes a moment to take in the scene.

Jack lets go, scrambling to the opposite wall of the tent, clutching his shoulder and staring in utter consternation and terror between Cyrnarel and Mahanon. He's actually begun to cry.

Cyrn's up against the tent wall opposite of Jack. They're shaking and tense, eyes wide, and they're breathing heavily. The sudden movement hurt all of their recent wounds.

"What's going on?" Mahanon asks, not sure which one attacked first. He lets the spell in his hand dissipate.

Jack just whimpers a little, pressing harder on the tooth-marks in his shoulder.

Cyrnarel still looks flighty, not giving an answer either.

Mahanon looks between the two of them. Jack is injured and upset, but he can heal himself, and Cyrnarel is also panicking, if uninjured.

He heads over to Cyrnarel and hugs them, stroking their hair and back to soothe them, whispering to them in elvish.

Left alone, Jack rolls up about as tightly as he can (it's not a very small package, though), covering his head with his arms, trying hard to simply weep and not begin howling and kicking.

About ten minutes later Cyrnarel leaves the tent with a guilty look on their face. Mahanon heads over to Jack and kneels next to him.

"Jack. Can I heal you?" he asks softly, gesturing to the wound. It's not deep at all, but will leave a bruise.

"Don't touch."

"I can heal without touching."

"…Okay." Jack doesn't raise his head.

Mahanon keeps his hands about an inch away from the skin. The healing goes slowly and probably itches, but it's the best he can do. After a few minutes, it's sealed and he's pretty sure all that will be left is a faint bruise.

He lowers his hands back to his knees. "Can I hug you, lethallin?"

Jack thinks about it. At this point he's fairly sure he won't kick Mahanon's knee out, so he nods.

Mahanon wraps his arms around Jack gently. "Are you alright? You don't have to talk if you don't want to." Hugging Jack means Jack can't use his hands much.

Jack nods again, against Mahanon's shoulder. "Just one time, bit me."

"Yeah. They said they panicked." He rubs a hand soothingly over Jack's back. "They'll probably apologize later."

"I didn't--mean--" He shakes his head.

"You didn't mean to scare them?"

He nods.

"I know. They know." Mahanon chuckles. "I should've told you they might panic, but I had no idea you'd actually try sleeping with them."

"Lonely," he says by way of explanation.

Mahanon tries to hold down laughter but snorts anyway. "You got that lonely?"

"Nnn." It's more complicated than that, but Jack certainly doesn't have the words to explain at the moment.

"Cyrn got lonely?"

He nods again, letting the weight of his head fall on Mahanon's shoulder afterward. The fear is leaving his body, and he's tired.

"They like you, you know? Even if they don't like to admit it." Mahanon frowns. "They wouldn't tell me how they got injured though."

"Ev'rything's going to be…strange and awful again."

Mahanon shakes his head. "I don't think so. There's not much stranger than traveling with a shem in the first place."

"But--I mean--never mind."

"What do you mean?" He doesn't want Jack to hide things if they make him uncomfortable.

"We were--getting along."

"I don't think that'll change just because they got startled."

"Really?"

"You know how easily it is for them to get upset. That's temporary."

"Okay."

Mahanon pulls back from Jack. "You're alright now?"

"Mostly."

"That's good." He chuckles. "Well, the two of you will have plenty of time to make up on the ship, at least."

"Ah…ah."

"What is it?"

Jack bites his lip. "Money stole."

"What?" Mahanon’s eyes go wide.

"City. Thief. Couldn't catch."

"Oh." Mahanon almost visibly deflates. "So... we can't afford a ship."

"No."

"Ah." He leans his head on Jack's uninjured shoulder. "What's Cyrn doing, then? Not like they can get a job in the city."

Jack sighs softly. "Hunt, skin."

"Of course they'd do that." He looks back up at Jack's face. "How are you doing, then? Still want to sit about with us until we scrape up the coin to head south? Not that it should take all that long. I'm sure there's some noble in the city who won't mind if they lose a few sovereigns..."

Jack jerks his head at the outside of the tent. "Said I should come."

"You don't mind the wait?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, I'm glad you're here with us." Mahanon stands up and stretches, walking across the tent and tossing Cyrnarel's shirt over to Jack. "Give that to them for me? I've got to sharpen my sword."

"'Kay."

Mahanon sits down and digs through his stuff for a whetstone and sword, back towards Jack. He's pretty sure they'll get along fine again. And very hopeful.

Jack hesitates for a few minutes, then creeps outside of the tent, holding the shirt as if it's a wounded animal and looking for Cyrnarel.

Cyrnarel's pacing outside by the firepit, looking down at the ground under their bare feet. They don't look up at Jack as he exits the tent, and their pacing gets a tiny bit faster.

"Cyrnarel…?" Talking is still hard but he can usually manage names.

They look up at him and freeze like a deer at the wrong end of an arrow, fear flashing on their face for a moment before it disappears. Their shoulders remain tense and they glance back at the ground. "Yeah?" The shirt is obviously theirs.

Jack holds the shirt out, looking studiously away from Cyrnarel. "Sorry."

Tentatively they step forward and take the shirt, moving back quickly again as if Jack's going to bite them, and they pull the shirt on in seconds. "Sorry?"

Jack sucks his teeth. "Scaring."

"Oh. That. I. Uh." They shift uncomfortably on their feet and look to the side of Jack. "I'm sorry for hurting you," they mumble.

"Okay," he says, gently.

"I shouldn't have hurt you, and that was bad, and I'll try not to do it again." Their voice holds a mixture of guilt and fear. They know Jack's a good person, but he's a human, and they can't help but be a little afraid.

Jack…sits down. "Okay."

They watch him warily, moving slowly back to the tent while keeping him out of the corner of their eye. They come back out with the stew pot and start walking out of camp while keeping him in sight, presumably going to fill it with water.

Jack blinks, and after a moment, simply crawls back to his own tent and shuts himself inside.

Cyrnarel returns within a half hour, setting up the pot to boil and shoving the remains of the wolf inside. Mahanon's already prepared some vegetables and drops those in along with some spices, and Cyrnarel silently helps chop more veggies.

The smell of food makes Jack's stomach growl, but he thinks he might rather starve than see Cyrnarel look so frightened of him again, so he stays where he is.

A few hours later, once Cyrnarel's picked at their food and Mahanon has eaten two bowls of stew, Mahanon approaches Jack's tent. "Jack?" he calls out. "Food's ready."

He's not too concerned about Jack--the human will come out and eat half the pot of stew once he's ready--but he does like Jack's company.

Jack gets himself upright and sticks his face out.

"Nn."

Mahanon reaches out to ruffle his short hair. "It's there if you want it."

"Mrr." He smiles a little, shaking his hair back into place. "M'kay."

Mahanon smiles back at him and returns to the fire, Cyrnarel leaning on him as soon as he sits down.

Jack watches them for a moment, then goes back inside. He'll eat a little later.


	9. Compassion

The next morning finds Cyrnarel well-rested, and they return before noon with another wolf to skin. Mahanon stays in camp the whole time and helps Cyrnarel skin the wolf and prepare the meat for lunch. It's not the best meal, but the pelt will earn them some coin, at least.

Jack is no longer in hiding, though he's still shy and a little nervous. Still, that won't stop him from eating. Between bites, he signs, "[I will go to find plants today.]"

Cyrnarel isn't openly avoiding Jack, but they are wary of him.

"See if you can find some nice herbs while you're out," Mahanon says, nodding towards the meat in his hands. "We're running out of them and I'd rather not have unseasoned game."

"[I will.]" He shoots Cyrnarel an anxious look, but says nothing.

Cyrnarel looks at him questioningly, but doesn't ask--they still feel guilty from yesterday and wonder if Jack wants to avoid them. Mahanon ignores the looks, figuring there's nothing terribly important going on, and sticks some of the meat on the fire.

Jack gets ready to go in silence--he's wearing his light armor, and he leaves Spellweaver in his tent, not wanting to have to explain himself if he should happen to meet someone.

"[Goodbye. Be safe.]"

Cyrnarel snorts at that. "We're Dalish, shem. We can handle ourselves." Their tone isn't harsh.

And rather than looking upset or offended, Jack grins and flaps a hand at them as he goes.

* * *

 

As it turns out, the two have a hard time handling a group of templars a couple of hours later.

The fighting can be heard from a fair distance away. When Jack returns, one templar lies dead on the ground, face burnt unrecognizably in their helm, and one other sustains a couple of cuts. Four more remain uninjured.

Mahanon, on the other hand, is breathing and bleeding heavily. He's foregone his sword in favor of spells at this point, alternating between casting and holding a wound on his abdomen closed. No reason to hide that he's a mage anymore.

Cyrnarel is less injured, but can't attack the templars easily. They may be fast, but the templars are covered in armor. They're sweating hard and have a wound on their leg.

Neither elf is wearing armor or boots, both still in their clothing.

Cyrnarel is moving defensively, unable to attack but desperately trying to avoid templars' swords, and Mahanon gets dangerously close to the templars when he pauses to cast, pulling blood both from himself and the dead templar to augment his spells. It's foolish, with the rate at which he's losing blood, but he refuses to lose Cyrnarel.

Neither notice Jack return, both too terrified and busy to take note.

Jack hears it before he sees it and breaks into a run, sword out of its sheath, wishing he had Spellweaver to hand. But he hadn't anticipated this.

He reacts quickly, though; he's learned that. There's never time for hesitation. His hands begin to move and while it's difficult to channel magic through naked, unenchanted steel, it's better than nothing.

There's a blast of flame and painfully hot air, and one of the remaining templars cooks inside his armor. As the others begin to notice, he steps sideways, half out of reality, taking on a hazy gold translucency, walking with one foot in the Fade.

Jack's arrival provides an excellent distraction for Mahanon. The templar nearest him hesitates, and that's all he needs to cast a quick spell. The templar stills, then falls to the ground, having been internally boiled to death by his own blood.

But the effort has Mahanon down on his knees, two templars still surrounding him, and he's not sure he can cast a barrier in time.

The burnt templar's death distracts Cyrnarel, though, and they end up with a sword in their gut. Their eyes go wide and they try to move their arms, but instead drop their daggers. The templar kicks them off of the sword and onto the ground, slicing across their stomach once for good measure before turning back to the rest of the fight.

Cyrnarel still lives, but blood leaks from their mouth and their breathing is shallow.

Jack sees it happen, and howls, but he's too far to do anything, to stop it. In his rage and fear he's created a small tempest without meaning to, storm-winds whirling around him and lightning striking the ground at his feet.

A bolt strikes one of the remaining templars, and nearly in the same moment Jack steps forward and separates his head from his body; the man is in full armor, but his gorget is cleaved in two, the edges melted where Jack's sword struck.

Mahanon may be on the ground, but the templars know he's a blood mage and could probably call on a demon at any time. Best not to let him try that.

He doesn't even see the attack coming, the sword driving through his back and one lung. It shocks him, for a moment, but there's plenty of blood and dead templars lying around. He reaches an arm behind himself to grab the templar's foot and electrocutes him. Mahanon himself is able to avoid the shock with a barrier placed where the sword is, but the templar dies, sword still in the fatally wounded elf.

That leaves one templar alive.

Jack rounds on him and raises his still-smoking sword, looking rather more like a demon himself than a human man, hair tossing in an unnatural breeze and glowing with hot white light.

The templar raises his shield and sword, ready to fight this mage. It's what he's been trained to do, after all--take down dangerous people like this.

He steps forward warily, convinced he's prepared for anything the mage can throw at him but not ready to dive straight in.

"Don't run," Jack snarls, and lunges. He's not looking for a fight, he's looking for a kill. And quickly.

The templar doesn't run, raising his sword to defend himself. He's nervous, but convinced that there is some chance to win this fight.

Jack doesn't hesitate, doesn't even really guard; there's no fear in his mind, no uncertainty. This man _is_ going to die.

He aims a thrust of the smoking sword at the templar's throat.

The templar doesn't have the reflexes to react to that, body stiffening the moment the sword hits him. He makes a small gurgling sound before falling, dropping his sword to the ground.

Jack steps away, back out of the fade, and makes a small dismissive gesture to kill the storm. His sword crumbles, unable to stand up under all that magic. He seems to sag, but while the fight might be over, he has a deathwatch to sit, and he knows it.

He forces his feet to move, going to where Mahanon is lying, and falls to his knees.

Mahanon grins at Jack, blood bubbling out of his mouth as he breathes. "Hi," he says, voice watery and weak. "Lethallin."

Cyrnarel is lying about ten feet away, looking at both of them with one arm stretched out, fingers moving.

"Hi." Jack swallows hard. "I--I'm gonna fix it. Fix this. [Can you move a little?]"

Mahanon has one hand on his belly, holding together one of his wounds. The sword is still piercing him from the back through the lung. His eyes wander to Cyrnarel. "Help Cyrn."

"I--okay." Jack bites his lip. "[I'll be back. Hold on, okay?]" 

He scrambles over to Cyrnarel, surveying the damage and seeing nothing good.

Cyrnarel's bleeding out onto the ground and their eyes are glassy, still reaching for Mahanon with their hand. They mutter in elvish, mentioning Mahanon a few times and sounding desperate.

Initially they flinch at Jack's approach--giant humans aren't who they want to be around right now--but they keep murmuring in elvish.

"Cyrnarel." Jack blinks hard. He could be the best spirit healer in the world and he's not sure he could stop this. He may not understand much elvish but he knows the name. "[Can you see me? I'm going to move you closer. Take you to Mahanon. Okay?]"

They turn their eyes to him when he says their name and stop mumbling. They don't seem to understand him, but they recognize him signing Mahanon's name.

"Mahanon," they say eagerly.

"Okay." Carefully, he scoops Cyrnarel into his arms and brings him to where Mahanon is. He feels like he's choking, completely helpless in the face of death.

They gasp with pain when he picks them up, but they watch Mahanon and grab his hand once they're next to him. They start mumbling in elvish again.

"Vhenan," Mahanon says, smiling down at them and holding their hand. He's stopped ticcing completely, but he's wheezing now.

He looks back up at Jack. "Heal them," he says before looking at Cyrn, whose voice keeps getting quieter.

Jack grits his teeth. He couldn't heal a cut in his own damned leg, let alone multiple mortal wounds. So, Jack, whose response to every unsurmountable obstacle has been 'there must be another way,' shakes his head.

"[You know I can't.]"

Mahanon removes his hand from his wound, letting blood spill out, and moves it to tap the sword in his chest. "Lay me down next to them." The sword would have to be removed for that.

His thoughts are starting to get jumbled as he becomes lightheaded, but he at least wants to lie down next to Cyrnarel once more.

No, he can't, he can't do this. It's not fair. Hand shaking, Jack wraps his fingers around the hilt of the sword, and in one smooth jerk, pulls it clear. His other arm is ready to catch Mahanon and lay him down.

"I'll try--I'll try."

One hand over each of them, Jack reaches for the fade, and for a moment his hands glow blue, but he can't maintain his focus, and it slips away.

"Stupid!" he cries, striking at his own head with the heel of his hand.

Cyrnarel's stopped talking now, and Mahanon's bleeding out even faster, but he smiles up at Jack. He holds one of Cyrnarel's hands in his own and turns on his side, kissing Cyrnarel's cheek before resting his head in the space between their head and their shoulder.

He's out of words now, too.

Jack keens in his throat, rocking a little in his crouch, heel to toe and heel to toe again, hand still pressed tight to the side of his head.

There's nothing he can do. He's known this from the beginning, knows the weight of futility all too well by now. It's not fair, but--they deserve better from him, so he forces the words up and out of his throat.

"Travel well."

(But that can't be it. There must be some other way.)

Mahanon smiles just a little bit more and Cyrnarel stops breathing. Mahanon might still be breathing, but his mind is going, and he's no longer fully conscious. He just knows he's next to Cyrnarel, and that's all he wants right now.

Jack wants to scream, cry, wail, but--he's interrupted. Something nudges back from the Fade. Soft, insistent whispers. _Let me in. I can help. But choose quickly._

He knows, dimly, that this should frighten him, that this is what he's been warned of since before he could talk.

But it doesn't seem to matter. What's the point in resisting? At least this way he can hope, if only for a moment.

He opens up, lets it in.

The change is nearly instantaneous. His eyes go first, irises changing from brown to impossibly bright blue-white, seams appearing in his face and shining with the same. He moves smoothly, as if he wasn't doubled with grief a moment before, and his hands stretch forth.

Mahanon might still be able to feel it, like a wind straight out of the Fade, too powerful for mortal magic. And the wounds begin to knit together; even Cyrnarel's, the power pulsing and pushing at his lungs, nudging them to breathe again.

Both of them remain unconscious, but Cyrnarel begins to breathe again, slow and shaky at first but gradually steadying. Mahanon coughs globs of blood onto their shoulder as he breathes, blood still inside his lung and throat, but he's healing.

They both still have a dangerously low amount of blood in their bodies, but they might survive regardless.

Compassion sits in the same crouch, watching them through Jack's eyes, until they're sure the two elves are out of danger--even if it takes all night, or longer.

* * *

 

Cyrnarel wakes first in the morning.

At first they're confused--they ache all over and there's dried blood on their body. The stench of blood still fills the air.

And then they become aware enough to notice Jack kneeling over them and panic sets in. They're not yet sure why they're panicking, just that they do not like a large human kneeling over them, and they kick him. It's a weak kick--probably more startling than painful--but it's definitely aggressive.

"Ow," Jack says, automatically, but they don't move away from Cyrnarel, and Jack's face doesn't even twitch. The voice…isn't quite right either.

The fact that Jack doesn't move away makes them panic more, and they shuffle backwards on the grass, letting out a yelp as they do so. They might be healed, but the wounds were nasty and they still hurt like hell. They lie back on the grass, breathing quickly.

Then they push themself up to a sitting position. There's something odd about Jack, but... he's Jack. He's an okay person. They're more worried about Mahanon.

They lean over him and shake him gently until he wakes up, blinking in the morning light.

Cyrnarel's still putting the pieces together on what happened, but they help Mahanon sit up and then hug him tightly. Mahanon's still confused.

Compassion smiles, pleased to see this--and oddly pleased too, to feel the sensation of muscles pulling and releasing in their--Jack's?--face.

Cyrnarel starts crying quietly and Mahanon slowly realizes--in part because of the bodies around here--what happened. Or some of it, at least.

He returns Cyrnarel's hug. "Hi," he says, confused, to nobody in particular.

Compassion tilts their head, and though some of the glow has faded, their eyes still gleam unnaturally in the light. "Hello."

Mahanon can't tell what's off with Jack, but he can tell it's something odd. Magical.

Of more interest is how they even survived. His memory's still fuzzy. "What happened?" he asks, unsuccessfully making a mild attempt to uncling Cyrnarel from his body.

"I healed you. You were both badly hurt." Dying, really.

"Oh."

"Still hurts," Cyrnarel mumbles, sniffling.

"Thanks," Mahanon says.

"Thought you were a shit healer," Cyrnarel says. They keep one arm wrapped around Mahanon but release him from the hug, then change their mind and kiss him.

"Oh, I'm not. I've worked with mages, many times."

Cyrnarel looks back at Jack. "What?"

"I've worked with many mages. At least--it seemed many to me, but of all the mages in the world I suppose there are not many spirit healers."

"The fuck are you--"

"Oh."

Cyrnarel looks at Mahanon questioningly. "The fuck is this?"

"Hi," Mahanon says once more with a tentative smile. "Who are you?"

"What?" Cyrnarel asks.

Jack's face smiles in return, though the effect is a little stilted. "Compassion is the virtue to which I aspire."

Cyrnarel reigns in their initial response, which is to mock the way the spirit said the sentence, and just looks on in confusion.

"A spirit, Cyrn, they're a spirit," Mahanon tells them. He looks almost excited as he holds out his hand. "I'm Mahanon! This is Cyrnarel. Thank you for, ah, saving us?"

"I know you already." They look at the offered hand in confusion and then clasp it gently in both their own.

Well, nobody can expect all spirits to be aware of social manners. "Good to meet you, Compassion."

"Oh," Cyrnarel says.

"We should probably move camp, I think. There's not a lot of templars around here and more might come after us." Mahanon winces, moving an arm to his side. He still can't fully remember what happened, just that it hurt and he feels awful, no matter his cheery demeanor.

"That is probably wise." Compassion moves to stand, but as it turns out, crouching in one spot for hours on end does not lead to limber muscles, and they very nearly collapse, clutching their cramping leg. "Oh! Ow."

Mahanon looks at them in amazement. "How long were you crouching there?"

Cyrnarel ignores them and wanders the camp, packing away whatever they can. Their own movements are pretty stiff and pained, and they have to fight off nausea at the scene their camp makes. Forget Orlais--they'll have to come back here much later.

"The sun went down, and the moons rose, and the moons went down, and the sun came up again."

"All night, then." Mahanon leans over, intending to heal Compassion's leg, but ends up toppling over in pain himself.

"Foolish. You'll hurt yourself again. But…kind." They reach out to help him up. "Look to yourself, we'll be all right."

"Alright, I... alright." He accepts the offered arm and stands on shaky legs, but goes about to help Cyrnarel pack stuff away. The sooner they leave, the better.

Compassion sees to Jack's things. The body knows what it's doing, and memory takes care of most of it, but the roll of his tent and his bedding is…not as neat as it could be.

Mahanon leads them north out of the camp.

Cyrnarel's a bit unnerved by Compassion, so they drift closer to Mahanon while they travel, but Mahanon doesn't seem to want to be that close to either of them.

After a couple hours, Cyrnarel asks, "Where's Jack?" in a quiet voice.

Compassion looks at them, tilting their head. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"What happened to Jack? Where is he? What did you do to him?" They try to keep their voice calm, but they're really anxious today. Mahanon has an idea of the answer, but stays silent.

"We are here. He--let me in, after the battle. We--he isn't hurt."

"Why isn't he talking?"

"Well…he's…away."

"What do you mean, away?" They're obviously distressed now.

"He's resting." Compassion licks their lips anxiously. A nervous Jack would be stimming by now, but their hands are still. "He's--we're both here, in a way. I don't think that I am entirely me anymore, or that he is entirely him. But…it's mostly me, at the moment," Compassion admits.

"Oh." Cyrnarel turns from Compassion and keeps moving, not wanting to talk to them. It weirds them out so much to hear Jack's voice talking so frequently and steadily anyway.

"I'm…sorry." Compassion could make Jack come back out, but…they'd rather not. He's holed up in a back corner of his own mind, walled off quite thoroughly, and they suspect that drawing him out would only upset him more.

Except that the other mortal is upset, too. They clearly miss their friend. How does one choose in this kind of situation?

* * *

 

It's shortly after noon when they decide to make camp, both elves starving and expecting Jack to be starving as well.

"We should probably rest for the day," Mahanon says as he pulls out some provisions. "Considering our wounds." He seems distant and hasn't responded to any physical contact from Cyrnarel for hours.

"If not longer," Compassion suggests gently.

"We're not traveling overnight," Cyrnarel snaps. They start pitching their tent with shaky hands, ignoring food for the moment, obviously in a very negative mood.

Mahanon holds out some food to Compassion. "You need to eat."

"I do? Oh, I do. Thank you."

Mahanon nods at them and eats silently as Cyrnarel retreats into their tent.

Compassion does their best, but they weren't expecting the sensations to be so _vivid_ and they are a little disconcerting. In the end they eat less than half what Jack would have.

Mahanon nudges their food. "Eat more." Jack probably hasn't eaten in over a day and definitely needs more food.

"I'm trying. It's just--it's slimy, going down."

Mahanon shrugs at that, continuing with his own meal. Not his problem if Compassion won't eat, and he doesn't want to interact with them now anyway.

Compassion lapses back into uncomfortable silence, forcing down a few more bites.

Mahanon sighs once he's done and heads to his tent, Cyrnarel emerging a minute later with a scowl on their face. They're shirtless and bootless again, only wearing their pants and necklace, and the new scars shine brightly on their stomach. They've put fresh bandages on their arms.

They give Compassion a quick, vicious glare before plopping down to lie on their back on the grass somewhere between Compassion and the tent. They want company, but Mahanon is not good company right now and Jack is absent.

"What's wrong?" Compassion asks.

"Are you Jack?"

"…No."

"Then shut up."

"Oh."

They continue to stare at the sky silently, hurt and angry and frightened but not trusting this spirit.

"Should--should I call him?"

"What?"

"Jack, should I--I think I can call him out, if you need him."

"I don't fucking care." They do care, but they won't admit that, not to this spirit.

"You don't?" Compassion sounds confused.

"I don't care what the fuck you do."

"Ahhh. Oh."

"'Oh'?"

"I don't know what to do."

"Good for you." Cyrnarel should probably help the spirit, but decide not to.

"…Okay."  Compassion retreats to the other side of the fire, thinking hard.

Cyrnarel feels restless but says nothing. They're not very patient though, and might speak if Compassion doesn't do something soon.

Compassion stays silent, looking deep into the flames, slowly settling into a crouch with their hands around their knees.

Cyrnarel lets out a breath and turns their head to look at them. "Fine. Get Jack. Don't just sit there weirdly. It's fucking weird."

More silence. Compassion has been trying to talk Jack out of his barricade for a few minutes already, but the mortal is stubborn.

And then all at once he's back in his body, Compassion a soft, humming presence in the back of his mind. He lets out a low groan and cracks his neck loudly.

"Augh…what?"

Cyrnarel notes the physical difference--if not, they might have thought it was still Compassion speaking. "Jack?"

"Nnn…'s me."

They push themself up and warily walk over to him. "Really?"

"Uh huh."

They take a moment to inspect his face. Apparently approving of whatever they see there, they sit next to him, not quite touching. "You make the worst fucking decisions."

Jack bumps him, very, very lightly with one shoulder. "Know what I'm doing."

"You let a fucking spirit into your body!" They're angry, but also worried. "And they're not you!"

"Cyrnarel." Jack’s voice sounds right again, slow and carefully considered. "You were dead."

"I wasn't dead! Look, I'm fine, all healed, not a mortal wound." They poke at the scars on their stomach, their pinkness contrasting with the other old scar there. "You can't bring people back from the dead. But you let a spirit in."

His fingers flick. "It healed you. I tried--I couldn't." He twists a little so Cyrnarel can see his hands. "[You weren't breathing. I was scared.]"

They shake their head. "No, you healed us. You're fine. I'm fine, and I'm breathing, and I was breathing."

"[I couldn't heal a cut in my own leg, you know that.]"

"You can." They tentatively lean on Jack. "You're a mage, you can heal people fine."

"[Never got the knack. Better at destructive magic. Primal school--never mind. It's a Circle thing.]" Jack heaves a sigh. "You don't remember; it's okay."

"I do remember." And that's the scariest part. "You don't need a fucking spirit to heal. Nobody died. We're fine."

"[You do remember--]" He frowns, genuinely confused and a little upset. "[So you're lying? On purpose? Why?]"

"I'm not fucking lying!" they snap, but they don't raise their voice. "You're fine at healing and nobody came close to dying."

"[I am an awful healer, and you were run through. Both of you. I tried to help, but I couldn't hold it. I--I ran out of time.]"

"No, we weren't run through. We're fine." They're starting to shake against him.

Jack notices the trembling, sighs softly. "Okay. We're fine."

"Yeah, and now you've got a weird fucking spirit with you."

If Cyrnarel won't face what happened, Jack doesn't know how else to explain it.

"[I don't take it lightly.]"

"It's weird. I don't like it."

"I'm sorry."

"Hm." Cyrnarel continues to lean on him, feeling a little better now that Jack's back to being himself.

"I made a choice."

And he was tired of hearing there was no other way. And there was no one to tell him, so he found one.

"And now you're not always you."

"That's the price."

"But you didn't have to."

"Didn't have to," Jack agrees. He could have just watched it happen, after all.

"We wouldn't have died."

“Mm."

They let out an exasperated sigh. "Why the fuck did you do it?"

"Told you already."

They make a sound. "Why do you _care_?"

"Friends."

"Nobody lets a fucking spirit in their body just to help friends."

Jack looks a little confused. "No?"

"No! We're a couple of elves, we're not important to someone like you, and we're broken." They sigh again and lean against him more heavily. "I don't get it."

"[I decide who is important to me.]"

"And I don't understand it."

"You don't have to, kadan."

"Kadan?"

"[It's a Qunari word. Picked it up traveling.]"

"Oh."

"[It means--well, I don't know exactly. It means 'my heart.']"

Cyrnarel snorts at that. "If I ever fucking call you that in elvish, punch me."

"[I'll try to remember.]"

"Hm." Leaning against Jack is nice; it's good to have him back. "Mahanon doesn't want to talk."

"[I…guess that's not surprising.]" It's all a lot to process.

"He never stops talking. But now he won't talk at all."

"Well." Well, he nearly died, Jack doesn't say. That particular line of conversation has gone nowhere thus far.

"He should be asking all sorts of questions! Spirit shit. Mage shit." They sigh again. "I fucking hate templars."

"Me, too. [I don't think I'd want to answer questions anyway.]"

"How did you ever stand being surrounded by those fuckers? You were, weren't you? Circles and all?"

"[Yes, my whole life until I joined the Wardens. A lot of the time they're just--people, but you never forget what they can do to you.]"

"I don't like shemlen, but templars are some of the worst."

"Mm." Jack nods. "[I was almost glad, when--well. Maybe not _glad_.]"

"When...?"

"[The tower was overrun with abominations and blood mages. It was awful, though. A lot of people died, templars and mages both. Sometimes I think they had it coming, the templars--but that's horrible, to think that.]"

"Oh. That sounds bad. Did any of your friends...?"

"[Dead, mostly.]"

"I'm sorry."

"[Jowan and Maia were gone already, at least.]"

"They escaped?"

"[Maia was transferred. Jowan--Jowan got out a few weeks earlier. With my help.]"

Cyrnarel nods. "That's good, then." They're quiet now, thinking, and their expression is sad and anxious.

Jack watches them for a moment, waiting to see if they'll say anything else, if their thoughts will turn to words.

"I don't like shemlen," they say again, quietly.

"I'm sorry."

Cyrnarel grunts, but doesn't say anything more, scratching at one of his arms.

"I'm glad you're okay."

"'Course I'm okay. No way I wouldn't be okay."

"Yeah, yeah."

It's his turn to go quiet, and he twists his head a little away, trying not to sniff as his eyes begin to leak.

"What is it?" they ask with concern. "Is it your friends? Thinking about them?"

He does sniff then, shaking his head. "[It's everything. Everything's changed, and I don't know what to do.]"

"The spirit?"

"Mm. You know I can't go back. To the Wardens, to the Circle."

"What?" Their eyebrows knit together in confusion for a minute before they realize. "Oh. Because you think the spirit will be a problem."

Jack snorts, a little wetly. " _Think_? [I'm an abomination!]"

Cyrnarel frowns at him. "You're Jack."

"[Not completely. You said it yourself.]"

"But you're Jack. You're not a monster."

"[That's not how the Wardens are going to see it.]"

"They're not going to let you back because you let a spirit help you?" The concept of kicking someone out for having a benevolent spirit tag along doesn't make sense to him.

"[Yes. A mage who becomes possessed of a spirit is an abomination, and the penalty for that is death.]"

"Death? They'll want to fucking kill you?"

"Mmhm. [Of course--I conscripted a spirit at Vigil's Keep, but…the law regarding abominations is clear. I've killed many myself, though they were not like me. They were altogether lost, become monsters.]"

Cyrnarel’s mouth twists with disgust. "Humans are monstrous. When this happens to the Dalish, nobody's fucking _killed_ over it."

"[Really? What happens to them, then?]"

"Nothing. All mages are precious, possessed or no." He frowns. "Well, not when possessed by demons. Good spirits. Sometimes the spirits leave. Sometimes they don't."

"Oh." Jack swallows hard.

Cyrnarel hesitates, then wraps one arm around Jack's waist in a hug, still leaning on the human's arm. "Still a shit decision," he mumbles.

"What's Alistair going to say? Zevran?" His voice cracks.

"They're your bonded, yeah?"

"Uh huh."

"Then don't insult them by doubting them. They're not going to stop caring for you because you're too fucking compassionate for your own good."

"[Alistair was nearly a templar!]"

"If you don't trust him, why the fuck did you bond with him?"

Jack chokes, then shakes his head. "I do, I do! [I'm just afraid, that's all.]"

"If he's not fine with you, then he's not a good person. You might be weird as fuck right now but that's no reason to reject you."

"[He's one of the best I've ever known. We're just…that's how we're raised to think. That mages are always one step away from possession, and that's the worst possible thing that could happen.]"

"Yeah, because powerful healing spells are awful," they say sarcastically. "Not that you needed the spirit's help, because we're fine."

"[I just don't know what to do.]" He stops signing so he can bury his face in his arms.

Not knowing what to say to that, Cyrnarel hugs him tighter.

"I hate this. Isn't fair."

"Shit decision, like I said."

Mahanon emerges from the tent, a blank look on his face. He's carrying traps and other hunting tools, barely sparing the two a glance before leaving camp.

Cyrnarel watches him go anxiously, tightening his grip on Jack almost painfully as his heart speeds up.

Jack looks up, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

"[…he probably needs to be alone.]"

"I don't want him to go." They sound afraid.

"[Should I call him back?]"

They shake their head. "That'd be selfish."

"[I'll stay with you.]"

"I didn't ask for that," they say, aggressive but weak.

"I know."

Their stomach rumbles, reminding them that they haven't eaten at all since before the attack. "The Wardens might not like you, but your partners will. That's why you're bonded."

"Right. Of course."

"It'll be fine, shem, really."

"I hope so."

They sigh and go quiet again, leaning against him.

Jack lapses into silence as well, pressing back against Cyrnarel a little. If he'd had to predict who would comfort him in his time of need…well, this wouldn't be what he envisioned. But he doesn't mind.

Eventually Cyrnarel falls asleep against Jack, before Mahanon returns. They don't quite snore, but they do make some sounds as they sleep. Their face looks peaceful.

Jack considers trying to ease himself out from under Cyrnarel, not having forgotten what happened last time. But after a glance at their face, he can't make himself do it. If he gets bitten again, so be it; at least he'll be expecting it this time.


	10. Dance a Jig

Mahanon returns after a couple of hours, promptly sitting down to skin the rabbits he caught, not sparing the two more than a glance or skinning the rabbits with his usual care. He doesn't speak at all, just trying to get his work done quickly.

Jack watches him, and then cautiously--careful not to jostle Cyrnarel--reaches out and signs the shape he uses to represent Mahanon's name.

"[Mahanon?]"

"What is it?" he asks, sounding almost irritated. He barely looks up from his work to see Jack sign.

Jack draws his hands back, stung, and says nothing.

Mahanon shrugs and goes back to preparing the food. If Jack doesn't want to continue communicating, fine.

Jack just wanted to make sure he was all right, but…well, the answer is obvious, isn't it? He presses a little closer to Cyrnarel and shuts his eyes, though he has no intention of sleeping.

Mahanon disappears into his tent again as the food cooks. Cyrnarel stirs a little, but doesn't wake up.

For the best, probably. Jack is careful to stay still, though the smell of rabbit cooking is making his mouth water.

Eventually Cyrnarel wakes up. Well, they're not really awake, but in the stages of waking up where everything feels fuzzy and they're clinging to someone warm. They yawn loudly and snuggle Jack some more, frowning at the food on the fire.

"It's me, Jack," Jack says quietly, in the hopes that the warning will forestall the biting.

"Hmmmmm?" They turn their head to blink blankly up at his face, then lean on him again. "Warm."

"Mmhm."

"Don't fuckin' agree with me," they mumble. "'S weird."

"You're weird."

Their expression turns a bit sad. "I know."

"Aw. Not like that."

"I'm weird."

"You're good."

"No." They yawn again, stomach growling.

“Yes."

"Hm."

"Hm," Jack echoes.

They nudge his side gently. "Go eat, shem."

"I will if you will."

They make a noise a bit like a whine at that, pouting at the ground in front of them.

"A little?" Jack suggests.

"Don't wanna."

"Yeah, but still?"

They bury their face in his side with another whine.

"Please? [I'll do whatever you like. I'll dance a jig.]"

"Please don't," they mumble. The last thing they need right now is a dancing shemlen.

"[If you do, I _won't_ dance a jig.]"

They make another frustrated sound. "Fine."

Jack smiles. "Wait here."

They grunt and slowly let go of him, sitting on the ground on their own. They stretch their arms and crack their neck, feeling a bit stiff from staying still for so long.

Jack isn't doing terribly well himself, as evidenced by the fact that once he's up, he staggers a little, groaning. He's more tired than he would have thought possible, stiff, dizzy, and hungry.

"Ugh."

"Yeah. Ugh." Cyrnarel's starting to feel the pain from their wounds again.

Jack drops and half-crawls the rest of the way, and comes back with a couple of decent servings of meat, figuring he'll eat whatever Cyrnarel doesn't.

"Here."

They grudgingly accept it and start nibbling at it while leaning against Jack again, then take larger bites. They're completely famished.

Jack is hungry as well--Compassion didn't eat nearly enough to suit him, and he wolfs his part down in record time, closing his eyes contentedly once he's finished.

Cyrnarel fills up quickly, eating most of their portion (more than they usually eat but not enough to stay healthy) and handing off the rest to a still-hungry-looking Jack.

Jack takes it willingly enough; Cyrnarel held up their end of the deal, and it'll only go badly if he pushes. Besides, he's still hungry.

At some point, Mahanon comes out of the tent to eat, not talking to either of them.

Jack watches Mahanon, but after last time he doesn't venture to say anything.

Mahanon retreats to his tent again and Cyrnarel sighs. "He won't talk."

"I know."

They've started feeling a bit restless. "D'you want to go collect herbs?"

He gives Cyrnarel a look.

"Are we up for it?" He's not sure he is, and he hasn't been run through in the last couple of days.

"You want to lie about and do nothing?"

"Don't _want_ to."

"Then let's go do something."

"[Maybe we _should_ rest?]"

"I don't need rest." They're aware it's probably a blatantly obvious lie.

"[Maybe I do. I haven't been this tired since the Archdemon.]"

"Oh." They don't want to rest, but they don't want to be alone.

"[We can find herbs later.]"

"Okay."

They look about for a moment before moving away from Jack, lying on the ground not far away. As much as it's comforting to be near someone, holding that position is really uncomfortable, but they keep Jack within sight, at least. They wince and put a hand to their stomach as they lie down.

"[Can I lay next to you?]"

"Yeah," they answer, too quickly for their own liking.

Jack rolls over to them, oblivious to their worry, and butts his head up against their shoulder with a sigh.

"D'you feel lonely, Jack?"

"Uh huh."

"This is my first time away from the clan."

"Long journey."

They snort. "Yeah, and now it's even longer and we're going north. Mamae would be ashamed. And worried."

"Exigent circumstances."

"'Exigent'?"

"Um." It's a phrase he'd copied from someone else. "…bad?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Is your mother good to you?"

They bristle at the comment. "Why wouldn't she be?"

"Just wondered what it was like."

"What what's like?"

"I don't remember my mother."

"Oh. I'm... sorry."

Jack shrugs. "[Like I said, I don't remember.]"

"My mamae's nice. Busy, but..." They shrug against the grass. "She's a good person. She cares."

"That's good."

"She'd like you, I think. Likes mages, likes shemlen, likes spirits."

"Practically perfect," he says wryly.

"She's a templar's nightmare, probably. Could probably fight one barehanded. Wouldn't be surprised to find out she had."

That gets a big, sleepy grin out of him. "Think I'd like her too."

"She's our Keeper, too. Everyone likes her. Or respects her, at least." They shrug again, a bit sadly. "But I'm weird and so is Mahanon, so they don't like her so much."

"That's not fair. [You're both good, even if you're strange.]"

"Try telling that to everyone else."

"[Oh, no, I'm awful at telling people things.]"

They frown at him. "That a comment about me?"

"[No, it's just the truth. I told a man I didn't want to duel him but he just came and dueled me later anyway.]"

"Sounds like a dick."

"[Well, he's dead now.]"

"Hm." They sigh again. "I don't like death."

"[…Me neither. Seen too much of it.]"

"You're not gonna die anytime soon."

"[Twenty or thirty years, maybe. That's a while.]"

"Longer. You're still young, yeah?"

"[Yeah. But I'm a Warden.]"

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"[It's hard to explain, but--we don't live long.]"

"Oh." They go quiet for a moment. "That's still alright. You'll be fine."

"[How's that?]"

"Longer than me," they murmur.

"[How come?]"

"How long do you really expect me to live like this? Not as long as you."

"[You never know.]"

"Don't think I'm gonna get lucky."

"Hmm."

"'Hmm.'"

"Hmm," he echoes back, again.

Cyrnarel sighs. "My parents didn't get lucky."

"[Mine neither.]"

"Thought you didn't know them."

"[Didn't. Mage-child's just unlucky, for humans. Doesn't matter who.]"

“Dying's pretty unlucky."

"[Did you father die?]"

"Both of them, yeah." They touch the older scar on their stomach. "That's where I got this."

"[Oh. I'm sorry.]"

"Don't like shemlen."

"[That's how they died?]"

"Yeah, shemlen. Got too far north."

"[The direction we're going now, you mean.]"

"Yeah."

"[That's not good.]"

They shrug. "It makes sense, you know? If we're followed, people are gonna think we went east."

"[We can loop back around.]"

"Yeah, I guess that's what Mahanon has in mind." They shuffle their body over a little more to have more contact with Jack. "I don't want to lose him."

"You won't."

"You're gonna try to guarantee that after what just fucking happened?

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Well…yes."

They scowl at him. "I saw him. I saw him like that. I don't want that to happen again."

Jack almost says 'I thought nothing happened', but now doesn't seem to be the time for an _I told you so._ "[We'll do our best.]"

"That can't happen again. I don't want to lose him. I don't want to watch him die." They're a bit choked up now, trying not to cry.

Jack nods, throws a warm arm across Cyrnarel.

They're thankful for the extra contact. "You don't get to die either."

"Do my best."

"No dying."

"No dying."

"Good."

"Same t'you."

"I'm a Dalish hunter. I'm not dying anytime soon. Never even been badly injured in my life."

"Good."

They nod at that.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"No, I... nevermind."

"Sure? Okay."

"Yeah." They relax into the grass again with a yawn.

"'M tired."

"We're resting, yeah?"

"Can I sleep?"

"'Course you can."

"'Kay." Jack shuts his eyes.

"...What? Not even in your tent?"

He lifts his arm off Cyrnarel so he can sign, "[Why would I go in my tent?]"

They give him a flat look. "To stay warm? To stay dry? To not get bit by bugs?"

"[Do you think it will rain?]"

"Not tonight."

"[Okay then.]"

They push themself to a sitting position. "Tent, Jack. You can have all the magic in the world and still die from a snake bite."

He grumbles in his throat. "[I sleep outside all the time.] Red touch yellow, kills a fellow. Red touch black, a friend of Jack."

"Yeah, sure, you can see snakes when you're asleep." They stand up and start to pull the tent out from his packs.

"Ugh." He rolls over and gets to his feet to help.

Once the tent's set up, Cyrnarel nudges Jack inside and follows him in, collapsing onto the floor shakily and curling up.

Jack goes immediately from standing to hands and knees to lying down, and rolls over to Cyrnarel again. "[Okay. Tent. Happy?]"

"Mhm." They're tired and exhausted, but they've gotten Jack into his tent, at least.

Jack raises his hand to make a light, but the tiny spark simply fizzles out. He blinks, and lets his head drop with a huff of air. "[No mana. Completely dry.]"

"Sleep, then."

"'Kay. [Try not to hit me.]" He puts his arm around Cyrnarel again and snuggles close.

"I won't," they promise, leaning into his hug.

"Mm," he says, contentedly enough. He's asleep very quickly, especially considering it's him, and he sleeps longer and more soundly than he has in a long time, exhausted body and soul.

They fall asleep quickly as well, but wake up around midnight panicking. They don't kick Jack, but they move away from him quickly, curling back up in one of the corners of the tent.

That kind of movement would normally wake him, but Jack simply rolls over onto his stomach with a groan, and doesn't wake.

Cyrnarel stays awake for another couple of hours in their corner before falling asleep again there, away from Jack.

* * *

It's late in the morning before Jack even stirs, and he croaks a wordless miserable noise, waking with a pounding headache and a dry, foul-tasting mouth.

Food can be smelled cooking on the campfire and Cyrnarel remains sound asleep in their corner of the tent.

Jack glances at them, and then opts to leave them be. They undoubtedly need the rest just as much as he did. So, still in his rumpled clothes front he previous night, he stumbles out of the tent, hair at all angles and a few days' growth of beard on his chin, looking rather as if he got very, very drunk the night before.

Mahanon looks up at him as he leaves the tent. "Food's ready," he says, poking at the fire with a stick.

"Mmmn. [Thanks. Smells good.]" Jack feels awful, but at least his appetite isn't affected.

Mahanon blinks at him in mild surprise before looking back at the fire.

As usual, Jack shovels down a ridiculous amount of food, and settles back, looking a little more human though no less rumpled.

"[Is there a stream nearby?]"

"No." At least he's talking a little bit now.

"Oh." Jack sighs, dragging a hand back through his hair. It doesn't help.

Mahanon shrugs and picks at a bit more food for himself.

Jack's still concerned about him, but pressing people to talk isn't his way; it would make him a bit of a hypocrite. Instead he simply sits in silence, watching the fire, face still.

* * *

Cyrnarel's still not out of the tent a couple hours later when Mahanon starts taking down his tent to move camp.

Jack rouses himself and sticks his head inside his own tent. "Cyrnarel?"

They're still asleep in their corner of the tent, curled up into themself, but their breathing is shallower than it should be.

Jack crouches by them and reaches out to shake their shoulder lightly, ready to duck back at any moment.

They mumble something in response before curling back up again, not yet awake.

"Cyrnarel," he says again, reaching out to feel their pulse.

Their heartbeat is slower than it should be as well, but they blink their eyes open into small slits. "Hmmm?"

"Hi. It's me, Jack." He puts his wrist to their forehead, checking for fever. It may just be anemia, ultimately, but it's certainly worth checking.

Their body temperature is a little low, but nothing to worry too much over. They scowl a bit at him and look confusedly at his wrist on their forehead. "Hi."

"[We're moving soon. You have to eat today, you're sick.]"

"'m not sick," they grumble, curling up again.

"[Don't make me pull out the spirit.]"

They look worried at that--as worried as they can while still being half-asleep--and grab his arm. "Spirit's not you," they whine.

"[No, but it can certainly tell if someone's sick or not and I don't think it knows how to lie.]"

They curl up again, clinging to Jack's arm. "Don't like them."

"[So come and eat then.]" It's not the clearest signing ever, what with Cyrnarel being on his arm.

"Fine," they say, releasing his arm and starting to stretch.

"[Good, I'll pack the tent while you do.]" He sticks his torso out of the tent to sign at Mahanon, "[If we find water, we're stopping. I need a wash.]" Not to mention a shave.

Once Cyrnarel is out of the tent--weapons strapped on, clothes wrinkled, and hair sticking in all directions--they start to help taking down the tent. Mahanon's already gotten his down, and the fire's been put out, though there's still hot food left.

Once it's bundled up, Jack signs firmly, "[Keep your end.]"

"We should leave," they say, as Mahanon waits about expectantly.

"[You agreed.]"

"Didn't say anything." They pointedly avoid his gaze.

"[We won't get far if you fall on the road.]"

"Not gonna happen anyway."

Jack folds his arms and just _looks_ at them.

"C'mon, let's go."

"[No.]"

They turn around to start walking off on their own.

Mahanon is, so far, content to stand some distance off with his own things and watch the clouds. Jack sits down by the ashes of the fire.

Cyrnarel returns ten minutes later, walking right up to where Jack is sitting. "We need to move on. The fuck is your problem?" They turn their head to look at Mahanon, making their voice even more hostile. "The fuck is _your_ problem?"

Mahanon shrugs, having sat down on his own during Cyrnarel's short absence. Jack just points to the breakfast leftovers, utterly implacable.

Cyrnarel sits down next to Jack and glares at the food.

Jack nudges his shoulder gently, affectionately, just to soften things a little.

"Don't wanna."

"[I didn't want to sleep in the tent, but I still did it.]"

Cyrnarel scowls again. "That's different."

"[Not really. Go ahead.]" He smiles a little. "[I'll still like you if you don't, but you should anyway.]"

"You'd be a shit person if you didn't." Still, they pick up the food and poke at it a bit, making a face at it.

"True," he says blandly.

They nibble at the food, but can't eat much, and it's not long before they're offering the rest of it to Jack.

Jack demolishes the remainder without a word of complaint, and stands up, shouldering his pack.

"Ready."

Mahanon and Cyrnarel stand up again as well, Mahanon leading the way further north while Cyrnarel stays close to Jack.


	11. Getting By

Mahanon sits by the fire, sticking his hands in it every now and then to magically manipulate it. He's already eaten his dinner. Cyrnarel hasn't, but Mahanon made sure they were tucked comfortably into their bedroll in their shared tent before eating. They've been getting too tired too easily lately, needing a lot of sleep. Mahanon's been speaking to them, but only a little bit and in elvish, and he hasn't spoken to Jack or Compassion lately any more than a couple words.

They've headed back east to loop around to the port city again, collecting furs and crafting potions to sell next time they're in town. It's hard work, but if they're lucky they should get the coin for a trip south once they reach town again.

Jack has gotten used to near-complete silence when Cyrnarel's not with him, so he's sitting by the fire, well away from Mahanon, mouth pressed into a line. He's not really thinking much about the present moment, and his gaze is distant.

"Are you there, Jack?" Mahanon asks quietly, still playing with the fire in front of him. The flames nearest his hands are purple.

Jack jumps, not expecting to be spoken to. "'S me," he says softly, just as he's been doing when Cyrnarel asks.

Mahanon frowns at the fire, Jack's answer not being what he was looking for, and doesn't say anything else.

Jack returns his gaze to the fire, looking genuinely morose now.

Idly, Mahanon flicks his fingers, a little bit of purple flame springing to life in the grass right next to Jack's foot. Practically harmless, with how small it is, and easily contained and controlled.

Jack starts with a loud huff of air, then frowns at the fire as if he's never seen anything quite like it though of course he has many times.

After a hesitation, he carefully stamps it out, and a moment later, a tiny flame--this one bright blue--springs up by Mahanon.

Mahanon frowns at it, then pokes at it with his hand--pulling it back quickly with a hiss to stick his burnt finger in his mouth, staring at the small flame in annoyance.

Jack puts it out, looking… sort of a little past Mahanon more than right at him.

"You _are_ there," he says, sounding a bit surprised as he looks back over at Jack.

Jack frowns. "Said I was."

"Didn't think you were."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes you're not."

"But I said."

"Didn't believe you."

"Oh. [What changed your mind?]"

"The fire's real."

"[Is that why you stuck your finger in it?]"

He nods. "Thought it was fake."

"[Well…it's really me.]"

"Yeah, I get that now." He puts one hand over his burnt finger, hands glowing white as he casts a small frost spell to soothe the burn.

"[I don't think…they…know how to lie.]"

Mahanon shakes his head. "No, I don't think they would."

Jack sighs and slumps a little, but he's still looking vaguely in Mahanon's direction, still open to conversation.

"I thought you weren't _real_ , Jack, not that Compassion was lying."

_“Oh.”_

Mahanon sticks his hands back in the campfire, manipulating it again. "Are you alright?"

"[Getting by.]"

"I'm..."

He spends a couple of minutes playing with the fire in his hands before finding the right words. "You know what I am."

Jack nods, sad-eyed but not looking away. "[I know.]"

"Yet you still travel with us."

Jack, who has been through this with Cyrnarel too, tilts his head. "Yeah."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Nah."

"You really don't have a problem with blood mages?"

"No, no, no."

"But you were raised in the Circle."

"Jowan's a blood mage."

"He's..." Mahanon thinks for a moment. "He's a friend of yours, right?"

"[Like family. He looked out for me when I came to the Circle--he'd been there over a year already. He was bigger for a long time. He always stood up for me.]"

Mahanon smiles softly. "Sounds like my sister."

"[So…I don't care. I don't _care_ what kind of magic he does. Did.]"

"It really doesn't bother you? A Dalish apostate blood mage, just like all the stereotypes? Who can't even tell what's real and what's not?" His voice is bitter near the end.

"[It really doesn't. I know who you are.]"

"I guess you're technically an apostate now too, aren't you?"

"[Yeah. An…an abomination.]"

Mahanon shakes his head. "Not by our standards. You've been honored, given a gift."

"[But I'm not Dalish.]"

"Doesn't make you any less honored. A spirit chose to help you."

"[Maybe so. I'm afraid, either way.]"

"New experiences can be rather frightening."  Mahanon chuckles. "But next time I use blood magic, I'll endeavor to use a little less blood."

"[I would prefer that,]" Jack says, half joking and half completely serious.

"And I don't want to see Cyrn like that again." He's quieter now, sadder.

"[No. It was--]" Jack shakes his head, hands falling.

"I don't want to watch them die."

"Yeah."

Mahanon sighs. "I haven't really been doing okay since then, have I?"

Jack sucks his teeth, shakes his head. "No."

"Have I been a bother? I don't... I don't really remember what I've been doing."

"Just quiet."

"Not too bad, then."

"Nah."

"Will you sleep with me tonight? Share a tent, I mean. It would make things more bearable."

"Okay. Cyrnarel too?"

He shrugs. "I guess. They've been sharing with you a lot anyway."

"[Does it bother you?]"

"No." He grimaces. "I haven't been particularly friendly towards them lately."

"[They're afraid. We all are.]"

"How can I be expected to lead our clan if this is what I do whenever something bad happens?"

"[You never know.  I wouldn't have thought I'd be able to lead anything either.]"

"But this is my role, Jack. What's expected of me."

"[There's always time to grow.]"

"How do I grow out of _this_?"

"[Who knows. The point is--]" There's a flicker of white light behind his eyes, but it's quickly gone. "[You don't know what's going to happen every time. One result is not every result.]"

"This isn't just one result. I've done this before--you've seen this before. But I'm one of only three mages in our clan. I need to fulfill my role."

"[You will, or the other one will.]"

Mahanon sighs. "If I'm lucky--or unlucky, I guess--I might die before I have to."

"[You're not going to die.]"

"Dunno. Maybe I piss off another templar in the next thirty years or so."

"[You could just come with me to the deep roads.]"

"Rather a blade than some darkspawn, at least."

"Hmm."

"Well, I shouldn't be dying for a while, not with a spirit healer around." He smiles warmly, fire going pink at his fingers.

"[Not what I'd have expected to be called in my lifetime.]"

"Let's hope I don't have to follow." Despite the words, Mahanon's tone is light.

"Hmm. [Missed you.]"

"I was still here." Mahanon removes his hand from the flames and stands up, stretching his arms behind him as he walks around the fire to where Jack is and sits down next to him.

"[Yeah, but.]" He suspects Mahanon knows what he means.

"I can make up for it, if you'd like," he says with a grin, leaning close to Jack.

"Already?"

Mahanon shrugs. "Don't see why not."

"[I'm not sure. It's not you, though.]"

He slowly sits back again to give Jack some distance, putting his hand in the fire again to play with it. "That's alright."

"[I'm never sure if I'm going to…stay me.]"

"Do you think spirits like sex?"

"[I don't know.]"

"We could always make it quick. Surely Compassion can resist me for at least twenty minutes."

"[Can we just kiss a little?]"

"I... yes, we can." He blinks rapidly, caught off-guard by the request. Unless it's with Cyrnarel, he's really not used to the 'kissing without sex' thing.

"[Sure?]"

"Yes, I just... wasn't expecting that." He removes his hand from the fire, not wanting to lose so much focus that it burns him.

"[Things are weird right now.]"

"With Compassion?"

"[And everything, yeah.]"

"Everything?"

"[All the things that happened. I can't stop thinking. And I'm so tired.]"

Mahanon reaches an arm around Jack, holding him close. "You could stay, if you like. Head to, I don't know, Kirkwall or Starkhaven, or stay in Jader once we get there. You can rest."

He nuzzles Mahanon's ear. "Born in Kirkwall."

Mahanon hums at the contact. "You don't have to come with us, if it tires you."

"Don't want to be alone."

"Good, because the three of us are probably going to be packed into a single cabin on that ship... Do you think the captain will have a nice cabin?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "Probably." He kisses Mahanon's neck.

Mahanon tilts his head further to allow Jack more access. "I might have to check it out sometime."

"You will." It's not much of a might.

He chuckles at that. "I'll try my best."

"Me and Cyrnarel sleep in bilge," Jack teases.

"I'm sure I can convince the captain for an upgrade."

"Counting on you."

"Hm." He leans in to kiss Jack's neck. "Didn't ever think I'd be getting cuddly with a shem. Or that Cyrn would, for that matter."

“Didn't ever think," Jack echoes, meaning--it's strange to him, too.

"You should've seen Cyrn a few years ago. You wouldn't think they could be shy now, but they were trying so hard to get my attention even before we earned our vallaslin."

"They're good." Jack has developed a deep fondness for Cyrnarel.

"You don't think your... healing magics can help him more, do you?"

Jack draws back, sad-eyed. "[Don't think we can heal minds or hearts.]"

"But, I don't know, what about their energy? You saw them earlier--they're exhausted." Mahanon sounds almost desperate.

"[They need rest.]"

"They need more than rest."

"[All we can do is love them.]" Again, his eyes glow for a moment, and there's a sheen in his mouth and around the edges of his fingernails. Then it fades away.

"I just wish we could do more." Mahanon huffs frustratedly, but leans back in towards Jack. "Are you sure you just want to kiss?"

"[You just want to know what it's like to fuck a spirit.]"

A surprised laugh escapes him. "No, really, I just want to fuck you."

"Flattering."

"I try."

"[Tomorrow night, maybe.]"

"Alright." He leans up and kisses the edge of Jack's mouth before resting his head on the human's shoulder. "What's Compassion like? I don't remember much lately, and I don't think they've been talkative."

"[Hard to say. They're…with me but not, all the time. Sometimes I have thoughts that I don't think are all mine.]"

"I can't even imagine what that's like."

"[It's so strange. But they…well, they try to be kind, at least.]"

"I'd hope so, from a spirit of compassion."

"[They don't always understand things, though. Like that a kindness can be an unkindness if it's not welcome.]"

Mahanon frowns. "I can't think of any examples of that right now."

"[It's hard to explain.]"

"So long as they don't hurt you or Cyrn, they should be alright." He kisses Jack's neck again. "Want to sleep?"

"[I don't think it's in their nature.]" He sighs. "[I probably _should_ sleep.]"

"I'll make sure Cyrn doesn't hurt you this time," Mahanon promises with a grin.

"[They didn't last time.]"

"They'll be less startled with me there, at least."

"Mmhm."

Mahanon sighs and stands up, reaching out an arm to help Jack up.

He takes it, more as a gesture than anything; he gets up mostly under his own power, and keeps ahold of Mahanon's hand.

Mahanon puts out the fire with a flick of his free hand, leaving the camp with only starlight to see by (which is fine for his elven eyes, but he's never sure how well Jack can see) and leads the way into the tent. Cyrnarel shifts in their bedroll but doesn't wake.

He lets go of Jack's hand to start undressing.

Jack undresses as well, though not all the way--taking his cue from nights he's spent with Cyrn.

Mahanon, fully naked, walks over to Jack and pulls him into a gentle kiss. It's still a little weird to him, but he hopes it's not awkward.

Jack smiles and kisses him back, evidently not put off at all.

Mahanon quietly thanks Mythal for that, smiling into the kiss before ending it, and he curls up on one side of Cyrnarel, embracing the smaller elf.

Jack considers, and then settles on the other side of Cyrnarel, reaching a loose arm across both elves. He does not, however, press too close to Cyrnarel, not wanting them to feel surrounded.

* * *

 

Neither elf wakes during the night and both sleep in in the morning. Mahanon drools a bit on the bedroll and Cyrnarel looks a bit gray and pale.

Jack stays where he is, not wanting to disturb them though he's awake.

Cyrnarel wakes up first, facing Jack, and they blink a few times in confusion before touching Mahanon's arm wrapped around him. They turn their head to see Mahanon behind them, and then relax again while facing Jack.

Jack opens his eyes at the movement and smiles a little. He's awake, but relaxed.

Mahanon slowly wakes in response to the other two, yawning loudly before nuzzling his face into the back of Cyrnarel's messy hair. Cyrn rolls their eyes but retains some of their confusion--after all, Mahanon was avoiding them for a week.

Jack's smile broadens, and he shuts his eyes again.

Cyrnarel taps Jack's arm with a scowl, too proud and too sleepy to ask for closer contact. Jack is not difficult in this regard, and he snuggles closer almost immediately. Cyrnarel rests their forehead against his chest contentedly as Mahanon yawns again.

"I think we're out of tea," they grumble.

"We're out of tea," Jack echoes softly, not meaning anything by it, just making the sounds.

"We've been out of tea for two days now," Mahanon says. That Cyrnarel forgot that concerns him.

"We've been out of tea."

"Right, yes, I get the point, we are completely out of tea." They sigh heavily and close their eyes again. "The fuck time is it?"

"The fuck time." Jack yawns. "…past dawn."

Mahanon can't keep himself from giggling a little despite his concern for Cyrnarel. "Mid-morning, I think. Which, as you've both declared, seems the perfect time for fucking." He licks Cyrnarel's neck, which is about all he can reach from his position.

Their face reddens instantly, very aware of Jack's presence right now. "I, ah, um."

"Not that!" Jack protests, laughing and turning red at once.

"Shame, we could've gone and had a threesome," Mahanon teases.

Cyrnarel scowls at him and sits up, wincing and biting their lower lip as one of their hands goes down to the scars on their stomach. "You can keep that fantasy solidly in your head, vhenan."

"[No chance. Has he kept it to himself even once since we've traveled together?]" Jack is gently teasing, of course, not truly offended.

"Don't think he's even tried." They remove themself from the bedroll and start to get dressed, starting up a conversation in elvish with Mahanon, who remains comfortably curled up. Jack yawns and rolls into the warm spot Cyrnarel left behind.

Mahanon leans into Jack, still chatting back at Cyrnarel in elvish. Cyrnarel makes some sort of mock offended comment about Jack and Mahanon laughs, reaching out a hand to touch the human's chest.

"Mmm…" Jack grins.

Mahanon's head disappears as a shirt falls on top of it, Cyrnarel having flung it from the other side of the tent, and he sighs in defeat from underneath it. Jack chuckles, and moves to grab his own clothes from the corner of the tent.


	12. Orlais

By the end of next week they've scraped up enough coin to afford the short trip down to Jader and gotten on a ship. The three of them share a single cabin with two bunk beds and one chair.

A few hours into the week-long journey, Mahanon is comfortably abovedecks under the midday sun and Cyrnarel is uncomfortably tucked under the covers of the lower bunk bed, trying to pretend they're anywhere else.

Jack has been quiet for most of the day, oddly so even for him. It feels as though there's too much noise in his head for anything else. And then…he hears something else. A sound without a sound.

Cyrnarel is mildly comforted by Jack's presence--feels protected, sort of--but they'd really rather not be on a ship surrounded by humans. The seasickness is not as bad as the uneasiness they have around humans. At least with Jack they don't feel like they have to prepare for an attack at any time.

The fear will get worse over the week, they know, but they're not going to say such, so they stay silent in the cabin with Jack.

"[It'll be okay, you know,]" Jack says, not quite realizing that what he heard wasn't said aloud. "[We're not going to let anyone harm you.]"

"We're on a ship, Jack," they say, voice muffled through the sheets as they peek out at Jack. "'Course there's nothing to worry about." They're a little confused--is Jack worried? And just communicating to make himself feel better?

"[And if you get more scared, we can be patient. It'll be all right.]"

"The fuck are you on about?" They're not showing any signs of fear--they're careful about that, even around Jack at times--and the patience bit doesn't make sense.

"[Didn't you--]" He frowns, settles back in his chair.

"I'm not scared, Jack. Nobody gets scared by boats." Nope, Cyrnarel is definitely not afraid of being stuck on a boat with zero escape routes from humans. Not one bit.

"[You are, though, I--]" He what? Just knows? Can tell? Can feel it? Jack presses further back into the chair, as if trying to dissolve into it.

"Well, if you're scared, don't go projecting onto me," Cyrnarel snaps.

"Sorry," he whispers.

They're now in an even worse mood, burrowing a little deeper into their blankets.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, and balls up in his chair, trying to process what just happened.

It occurs to them that maybe Jack actually is scared. "You alright?" they ask softly.

Jack blinks, clears his throat. "Don't know."

"Fresh air might help," they suggest, even though they've both only been in the cabin for a few hours so far. And they don't want to be alone.

"Want to go up? Fresh air?"

"'m staying here." No humans in the cabin. Almost like they forget Jack's human sometimes.

"I stay."

"Suit yourself."

"Like the ferry. Rocking more."

"Hm?"

"Ferry on lake Calenhad, back and forth."

"Oh." The reminder of the motion isn't exactly helpful for their stomach.

"Before and after."

"Before and after what?"

"Tower."

"Okay." They don't understand what Jack's going on about--and, embarrassingly, they've forgotten what a tower is--but if he's talking that's alright.

"Back and forth," he murmurs. "[I used to watch the lake out of the windows, watch the water move.]"

"At home?"

"Mmhm. [I never crossed it until I was conscripted. It was so strange. So bright.]"

"You..." Their eyebrows scrunch together. "You did go outside, right?"

"[A little. There were courtyards. But not much.]"

"You were kept inside most of the time?"

"Mmhm."

"Shemlen are fucked up."

"Oh, there's so much more."

Cyrnarel shivers, thinking about their own horrifying experiences, including the attack that killed their parents and the one that nearly killed them (which they still deny). And the terror they felt when Mahanon was kidnapped. "I'd be happy to never see another templar again."

"[It's awful, having to act polite to them.]"

"If you weren't traveling anonymously, you wouldn't really have to, would you?"

Jack sucks his teeth. "[It's almost worse, as a Warden. We can't just--we can't afford to lose allies. We're not political, or that's what everyone says, but the truth is…we have to be."

"Fewer templar buddies means fewer mage and templar recruits to the Wardens and less aid?" they ask slowly, sorting it through their mind. "They could probably fuck up your lyrium supply somehow, I guess."

"Exactly."

"Shemlen are really fucked up."

"True."

They close their eyes and pull the covers over their head.

"Goodnight, goodnight." He's as much echoing as he is actually speaking.

"'s afternoon," they respond from under the covers. Idly they wonder if human mages have sleep spells--none of those in his clan do.

"Good afternoon."

They don't respond to that, opting to try to sleep.

After a few minutes, Jack clambers into the top bunk to try and do the same.

* * *

 

Cyrnarel wakes in a panic in the middle of the night and falls onto the floor with a thud and a cry of surprise, still wrapped in a sheet. They can't see, either--there's not enough light here even for elven eyes.

They can't think of where their weapons are in their fear, so they quickly shuffle under the bed and curl up there, shaking and trying to hold their breath so that they can hide.

It's not the sound that wakes Jack, it's the feeling. He starts upright with his heart in his throat, and though it subsides a little he can still feel it throbbing like a canker somewhere in the room. Shakily, he raises a hand and casts a light.

"Cyrnarel?"

They don't respond, instincts telling them to stay hidden, though they can't keep their breathing as quiet as they'd like.

Jack licks his lips. It's hard to breathe, with all the terror in the air. "Cyrnarel, it's me. It's Jack."

If they don't respond, nothing can hear or get to them. The light doesn't help much except that they can now see where their packs are and get to them if necessary. They curl up tighter to make themself look smaller to anything that can see them.

"Coming down. Just me." the ladder creaks as he gets down from the bunk.

A whimper escapes them. They know from experience that they should trust Jack, but he's also human.

"Easy." His feet appear, bare and flat on the floor of the cabin. He backs as far as he can from the bed before he begins to crouch, and he's careful not to get between Cyrn and the door, or the packs.

They stare at him like a cornered mouse, eyes glinting in the magic light as they hold the sheet tightly around them. Some awareness has started to come back, but they're still terrified and their heart is thumping loudly.

Jack shows them empty--and magic free--hands. "See? Just me."

They inch backwards the little space there is between them and the wall behind them. A human holding out his hands towards them isn't the most reassuring action.

He withdraws them, having displayed that they're empty. "It's okay. I'll protect you."

"I don't need protection from a shemlen," they spit out harshly, pressing their back harder against the wall.

"Okay." Jack’s body doesn't lend itself to looking small, but he tries to tuck himself tight anyway, looking into the middle distance--he knows that when he's panicking he hates being stared at.

Gradually the panic leaves Cyrnarel until he's exhausted and feeling empty, crying quietly under the bed. It's comfortable there. Not really comfortable, but the enclosed space feels protective and safe.

"How's it going?" Jack asks, softly.

"Mmph." They're not yet to a talking state.

"Want I come in?"

They don't respond, not entirely certain what he's asking, but he definitely can't fit under the bed. Well, maybe if he tried, but it would get very crowded.

"Mm…pillow?"

"Huh?"

"Want a pillow?"

They shake their head. It's not like they intend to stay under the bed, they just... don't want to move. And they're exhausted.

"'Kay." He settles back into his huddled crouch.

It takes another half hour, but eventually Cyrnarel starts crawling out from their spot under the bed, still clinging to the sheet around them and looking a bit ashamed of it all.

“Hi." Jack smiles a little.

"Hi," they mumble, getting to their feet unsteadily and heaving themself back up onto their bed.

"Okay now?"

They lie back in the bed and cover their head with the sheet.

"Want anything?"

They consider just ignoring him, but...

They poke their head back out again. "Water?"

"Okay."

Their waterskin is with their packs. While normally they'd feel bad over asking Jack to grab them something, they just feel numb and tired after the panic attack. "'m sorry."

Jack pulls it out and brings it to Cyrn, holding it for a moment in case they want help drinking. "'S okay. Don't mind."

They sit up and take the skin from him, drinking deeply. "Go back to sleep, shem," they say tiredly.

"Not sleepy."

They let out a breath and drop their skin to the side of their bed before curling up again and closing their eyes.

"Watch for you."

“Watch for what?"

"Nothing. Just in case."

"Whatever."

They fall asleep within minutes, face peaceful and breaths calm.

* * *

Next time they wake they'll find Jack sitting on the floor, with his back leaned up against the bed by Cyrnarel's feet. His head is tipped back, and he's dozed off.

Spellweaver is unsheathed across his lap, though.

Mahanon returns in the morning, hair a complete mess. He's in a pretty good mood, but lifts an eyebrow when he sees that Jack has a wicked sword out across his lap, both of them asleep.

Jack wakes, hand closing around the sword's hilt, though he doesn't move to lift it. His eyes clear and he sees Mahanon. With a yawn, he says, "Hi."

"Hi. You scared of boats?"

"[Can I fight boats with a sword?]" Jack inquires, teasing. Of course, he can't fight night-terrors with a sword either, but…semantics.

Cyrnarel shifts, blinking their eyes open, and they reach over to muss up Jack's hair. "Gonna ruin your back," they mumble.

Jack traps Cyrnarel's hand on his head with his own for a moment, then releases them. "Prob'ly ruined already."

"Don't know. I've tried some strange things." Mahanon sits himself down on the bed with Cyrnarel, pulling them to sit while leaning on him and kissing their cheek.

"The fuck you got a sword out for?" Cyrnarel asks, just now noticing it.

Jack reaches for Spellweaver's sheath, and slides it home, placing it back with his pack. "No reason. Just in case."

"Well, I'll have you both know the captain's cabin is quite comfortable and spacious with little need for sharp objects. Makes me want a ship of my own."

Cyrnarel scowls. "The sooner we're on land, the better."

"Have fun?"

"Of course!" He grins at Jack. "More fun than the two of you, since I can't imagine that being fun at all." He nods towards the sword.

"[A sword is neither fun nor unpleasant; it's just a sword.]"

Cyrnarel snorts. "He means in bed, shem."

"[Well, obviously swords aren't fun in bed.]"

Mahanon snickers. "I don't know, you've got a rather nice sword yourself."

"[Ugh, you're as bad as Zevran.]"

"I'll have to meet him sometime."

"After you're done 'meeting' the captain?" Cyrnarel asks.

"Of course."

"[Maybe later we go to Antiva and find him. He'd love to 'meet' you.]"

"More boats," Cyrn says with a scowl.

"More captains." Mahanon waggles his eyebrows.

"Mythal'enaste, vhenan'ara," they say exasperatedly. Then they look sideways at Jack. "Jack, it looks like you've got a type."

"[Alistair is very different,]" He protests. "[He was a virgin!]"

"Aww, just like Cyrn then," Mahanon coos, making Cyrnarel's ears turn red. They mumble quiet curses in elvish.

Jack snorts. "[Not really much like Cyrnarel either.]"

"You should've seen them the first time I showed them a toy. That is a face worth remembering."

"At least I didn't zap an aravel with lightning," they mumble through their blush.

"[Children, children--]" Jack scolds, laughing.

"Technically I can blame you for that one," Mahanon says to Cyrnarel.

"You _electrocuted_ me."

"And you enjoyed it."

Cyrnarel lets go of Mahanon to burrow themself under the covers again.

Jack chuckles, shuts his eyes. The bickering is soothing; it reminds him of home, whatever, wherever--or whoever--that is.

"My mamaes could barely keep a straight face while sending me to my punishment though," Mahanon says, almost laughing. "My sister couldn't look at me straight for a week. I think half the clan heard about it within the hour."

"[You poor thing,]" Jack says unsympathetically.

Mahanon looks down at Cyrnarel with a mischievous grin, hovering his hand over the bump in the sheets where one of their shoulders is. A small bolt of lightning zaps between his hand and their shoulder.

Cyrnarel yelps, head coming out from under the covers, and elbows Mahanon in the side. "You complete asshole!"

Mahanon just laughs in response, rubbing his side.

"[You two make me miss them.]"

"Your bonded?" Crynarel asks. They lie back down, but this time with their head in Mahanon's lap, and Mahanon runs his fingers through their hair, which is still rather short but needs a decent haircut.

"Yeah. Alistair and Zev."

"I would, too," Mahanon says quietly.

"[They are so sweet, so good.]"

"You'll see them again before too long," Mahanon reassures him.

"I miss home," Cyrnarel murmurs.

"[It's hard.] Jack reaches back to fluff Cyrnarel's hair, though from his angle it's more like patting him in the face. "[You find friends where you are. Do what you can.]"

"Never been away for so long before."

Jack nods solemnly, leaving his arm slung loosely back on the bed.

Mahanon nudges Cyrnarel a bit. "Weather's good today. You should both get some breakfast and fresh air."

"Mmph."

"Fresh air," Jack agrees, thinking it would be nice.

"And you need to brush your hair," Mahanon tells Cyrnarel, receiving a vicious glare in response as he gets up to shuffle through his packs for his own hairbrush.

"[We both need a haircut.]" Jack's cowlick is beginning to fall over his face.

"Ugh, you both sound like Mamae," Cyrnarel whines, stretching in bed as they prepare to get up.

"'Brush your hair, da'len. Keep it out of your face, da'len. Don't scare the shemlen merchants, da'len,'" Mahanon says, making his accent heavier.

"Not my fault they scare easy."

"[Hurts if you get mats in it,]" Jack says practically.

"Whatever you say, Mamae," Cyrnarel says, rolling their eyes. They push themself out of bed and start to dress.

Jack drags his fingers through his hair--he still doesn't need to brush it more than that--and stretches, reaching back to pat Mahanon's knee absently.

"Hmm?" He's not sure if Jack wants his attention or not, but keeps combing his hair.

"Mm." Nothing in particular, it would seem.

* * *

Cyrnarel leaps off the boat as soon as it's docked in Jader, bouncing on their feet impatiently for Jack and Mahanon to join them on the docks. It's not too busy yet, still being morning, but they won't feel relaxed until they're far away from humans.

Mahanon looks about excitedly, longing to explore the city but knowing they should get on the road soon. They have barely any coin, anyway.

Jack seems leery of the city as well, and would like to be out before the real crowds begin to swarm in, but he looks optimistic, pleased to be out of the cramped cabin. "[No more seasickness, eh?]"

"Thank Mythal," Cyrnarel says, eager to leave. "Let's go. Now."

"Okay, okay."

Mahanon tries to lead the way through the city, but finds it difficult, not being too used to human cities. He takes a few wrong turns on the way out, and once he's hopelessly lost, he looks helplessly at Jack.

Jack groans. He'll try, but the city isn't Fereldan and it's not as though he's been here before. Still, following his instincts, he takes the lead.

Cyrnarel makes sure not to let go of Mahanon's sleeve, neither wanting to lose him nor get lost. "Get us out of here, shem," they say nervously.

"Trying." He glances at the sun, takes another turning. Finally, they reach the gates--and they'll make it through those unscathed, because guards don't mind when Dalish elves _leave_.

Cyrnarel follows right on Jack's heels, eager to leave but not going to rush ahead, and they breathe a deep sigh of relief once they're a few minutes away from town, finally letting go of Mahanon.

"So. Orlais," Mahanon says, looking around. The Frostback Mountains are hugely visible from here, closer than the elves have ever been.

"[Kristoff came from here,]" Jack says, thinking aloud (or rather, visibly).

"Kristoff?" Mahanon asks.

"[A Warden. He would have come under my command in Amaranthine, but--I never met him. He died in the Blackmarsh.]"

"Oh."

"[Justice--well, Justice was--]"

"Justice?"

"[One of my recruits.]"

"A spirit."

"[Yes. He…inhabited Kristoff's body.]"

"You met a spirit in a dead guy's body?" Cyrnarel asks, eyes wide. "The fuck?"

"[No, I met him in the Fade,]" Jack clarifies. "[He didn't come into the body until after.]"

"That's fucking terrifying."

"[He was a good man.]" Beat. "[Spirit.]"

"He's... dead? Spirits can't really die, though," Mahanon says.

"[I…don't know where he is. The body was destroyed, and he was trapped inside it.]"

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"[I think he would have liked to see this.]"

"This?"

"[The mountains. Kristoff's home.]"

"'s cold," Cyrnarel says disapprovingly.

"[It's not so bad.]"

"We grew up in Ferelden, and yeah, it is." They're prickly after a week on a ship.

Jack shrugs. "[At least it's open.]"

They nod, quite happy to be on solid ground again, at least.

"You ever been to Orlais?" Mahanon asks.

"[No, never.]"

"We're gonna visit the Dales," Cyrnarel says excitedly.

"Oh." Jack frowns a little. He's not sure if he ought to be there. But that can be decided when he's closer.

"You're disappointed?" they ask.

“[No. I just--I'm human. I don't belong there.]"

They snort. "You're 700 years too late to feel bad about that."

"[I don't _personally_ , but still.]"

"You don't belong there," Mahanon says, "but you're just a visitor, not trying to take it. Half of it's been taken by humans anyway."

Jack nods, satisfied.

"Can't guarantee no elf's gonna want to knife you, though," Cyrnarel says. "But they might think twice about it."

"[Why's that?]"

They scowl at him. "No reason."

"Aww, they're gonna stand up for you," Mahanon says.

"I didn't fucking say that."

"Of course you didn't, darling."

They make an awkward sound. "You're starting to sound like a shem."

"[Probably just on account of I'm so big,]" Jack says lightly, and keeps walking.

"I do appreciate that," Mahanon says, while Cyrnarel makes a face.

"[You're not the only one,]" Jack replies, just in the spirit of teasing.

Mahanon laughs and Cyrnarel grumbles something, but then they yelp as they trip, landing on their hands and knees.

They swear viciously in elven and push themself back up quickly. "I hate Orlais already."

"[Are you okay?]" Jack halts, worried.

"I'm fine." They're a little shakier than usual, and putting most of their weight on one leg. "Let's go."

"[Did you twist your ankle?]"

"My ankle's fine. Let's go."

Mahanon knows not to push, but can tell Cyrnarel's in pain even if he's hiding it. "We can break for lunch in a couple hours and rest then," he says.

Jack follows his lead. "[Okay.]"

They continue on, Cyrnarel trying to hide their pain to start with but limping heavily within the hour, refusing to make a sound or ask for help.

"[I can heal it, you know,]" Jack says finally, unable to stand it. "[Won't take but a minute.]"

"I'm fine," they say, breathing heavily. "Don't need healing."

Mahanon's concerned glance shows that he agrees with Jack.

"[Please? I know it hurts.]"

"I'm fine!"

He huffs out a breath. "I can feel it."

"Bullshit."

"I can!"

"The fuck do you mean you can feel it?"

Mahanon stands awkwardly near the two, not wanting to get in the middle of this.

"[I don't--I don't know. I can feel it. I can feel when you're afraid, too.]"

"That'd be fucking weird. That's not possible, and I haven't even been afraid for you to notice."

"On the boat?"

"Nope."

Mahanon makes a gesture with his hand where Jack can see it but Cyrnarel can't, indicating that he should stop.

Jack licks his lips. "Okay. Fine."

"Let's keep moving," Cyrnarel insists.

"Okay."

They keep moving, following the road for now, until an hour later when Cyrnarel collapses on the ground.

Mahanon kneels beside him immediately, checking his heartbeat and temperature and moving him to a sitting position. He's passed out, skin clammy and grey.

"[Is he all right?]" Jack kneels too, worried.

"Not... I mean, he's normal," Mahanon says. Cyrnarel's normal isn't a particularly healthy normal, after all. "It must be his leg."

"[Let me?]"

Mahanon nods.

It's not visible through his pants, but Cyrnarel's knee is dislocated, which most people shouldn't even be able to walk with.

Jack closes his eyes, and then for a moment, he almost crumples as if he's fainted himself. When he steadies, his eyes are full of light.

Carefully, he (or rather they) moves Cyrnarel's leg back into position, and with one sharp wrench, pops it back into place.

Then he lays his hands over the injured limb, pulsing with light, knitting the tears and soothing the swelling.

Cyrnarel's face shows some pain when his knee is fixed, but he doesn't wake up. His breathing stays rather shallow.

"We should make camp now," Mahanon says, watching as Jack and Compassion heal Cyrnarel. "Or soon, at least. Somewhere off the road. I can carry Cyrn there."

"We will carry them."

"It'll be less awkward if it's just one of us."

"…all right. Tell me something?"

"Yes?"

"When…someone is hurting…why is it that mortals will wait to relieve it? Even until they fall?"

Mahanon shakes his head, picking Cyrnarel up. They're fairly light and he's got some solid upper body strength. "They don't want to be a burden, and their pride won't let them admit weakness." He looks at Cyrnarel sadly. "Cyrn doesn't want to slow us down or look less capable than they are."

"Why do we not simply explain, then, that we do not mind, and that they are no burden?"

"They'd think you're coddling them." He starts heading off the road, seeking a spot to camp.

"We don't understand."

"They're stubborn, and they're proud."

"Pride is a dangerous aspect."

"It's a mortal one."

"There are many beings of Pride in my homeland."

"I've met a few myself."

"Love is not coddling, it is only love. It is so clear to us; strange how complex the mortal mind."

Mahanon grins. "Don't let them hear you say that. You might get confused about them rejecting love."

"But they stay so close to us so often now. They must know that we love them."

"They wouldn't believe you, and they wouldn't accept it." They're not used to love except from family and Mahanon.  "Here's a good spot for camping," he announces, gently laying down Cyrnarel on the ground, propped up against a tree.

"I don't know how Jack accepts this so easily. It galls me, not being able to help."

Mahanon shrugs, pulling out his tent. "I guess it's just a thing we've learned after living so long."

"We are not very old. But--we have known many people, I think. I suppose I cannot grudge his tolerance. I would not otherwise have been drawn to him."

"I have to say I am very glad you were drawn to him."

"I have been near him for some time, even before."

"Really? What for?"

“The mage Wynne tried to teach him the art of spirit-healing. He was a poor student--not all are suited. But he drew me near, and I felt his heart."

"He does have some nice organs," Mahanon says, verbally smacking himself right afterwards. Not the appropriate time. "I'm glad he's caught on to healing though."

"I do not mean the muscle in his chest," Compassion says placidly, completely missing the innuendo. "I do not think he could do it without me."

"The joke was that I like his cock. The heart is an organ, the penis is an organ." Better start teaching the poor thing now. "I assume he contributes somewhat to the healing magic, though?"

"I don't see what his penis has to do with anything."

Mahanon sighs heavily. "You like his metaphorical heart. In order to make a joke, I respond as if you're talking about his physical heart, as they are referred to with the same word, in which case, I take your meaning and twist it to mean that you like the organ in his chest. I then associate that with other organs he has, and express my liking for his organs, implying his penis. Your lack of experience makes you miss both the joke and the implication."

"That is very complicated. Mortals are very complicated."

"You'll get it in time." He moves Cyrnarel into the tent, laying them down in a bedroll, before reappearing outside.

"Maybe, maybe not. He keeps me pretty well shut up."

"You've only been together... three weeks? Mythal, I make it sound like you're a couple," Mahanon says, mainly to himself. "If you stay and keep watch over them I can go hunt something for lunch."

"True, it's not long. And that kind of fear…it doesn't go away overnight." They sigh. "More of your mortal food. I suppose so."

"Fear? And yes, we must eat to live. Inconvenient, I know."

"Fear of abomination. He spent…more than fifteen years in the Circle, being fed lies and terror."

A hint of a smile pulls at Mahanon's lips. "'Fed lies and terror.' The logic you make with that phrase is comparable to the logic with which I made my joke earlier."

They think for a moment. "By comparing the food of the body to the food of the spirit?"

"Sort of."

"I see…"

Mahanon nods towards the tent. "You watch over them."

"We will. No harm will come."

* * *

Mahanon returns two hours later with a few rabbits, and takes another quick trip to fill the stew pot with water.

"How are they?" he asks once he's settled down to slice a few vegetables.

Cyrnarel hasn't stirred, but their condition hasn't worsened. "The same."

Mahanon nods. "Chop some vegetables with me?"

"I don't know how. Do you think our hands will remember?"

He holds up the carrot, slicing a bit off and letting it plop into the pot. "That's how."

"All right." They take out Jack's knife and pick up a carrot. It's an awkwardly large slice, but they don't fumble the motion too badly, or cut themselves.

"There you go," Mahanon says encouragingly.

"Everything feels so vivid."

"Do spirits experience the material world the same way a mage experiences the Fade? Or, similarly, I suppose, not the same."

"Only in that each is strange to the other."

"The raw Fade feels... foggy. Unreal. Almost like a hallucination, sometimes. Like I'm walking through a swamp of clouds."

"When a mage enters the Fade, their spirit goes walking. When a spirit enters the mortal world, it is wholly. The creatures you call demons would not risk so much for a mere half life."

"And you enjoy it here?"

"I'm not sure. Spirits of my ilk do not often come here willingly. If not for Jack…I do not think I would have chosen this."

"Change doesn't have to be positive or negative. Sometimes it just is."

"I agree."

With Compassion helping, the vegetables are prepared quickly, and Mahanon soon gets to work skinning the rabbits. He's not so sure he wants to endanger Jack by asking the spirit to help, though, so he prepares them on his own.

"It just…comes off like that?"

"Welcome to the material world, my friend."

"Euh."

"It's not that bad!"

"But then you _eat_ it."

"Once it's cooked and seasoned." He sets up the first rabbit to cook over the fire and starts on the second.

Compassion turns away with a shudder. The cooking is a mercy; at least it doesn't look so much like an _animal_ after that.

Once all the meat is cooking, Mahanon pulls out a pouch with a number of small clay jars in it, and adds a little bit from each of the jars to the stew. He hasn't used these spices before in Jack or Compassion's presence.

He puts them away and starts to slice some meat from the first rabbit into the stew, the meat having cooked quickly.

"What are those?"

"Tevinter and Antivan spices and herbs. I didn't bring much with me on this trip, but it's more than I should have."

"Antivan?"

"Antivan."

"We like those smells."

“Reminds you of Zevran? Or Jack of Zevran?"

"Us. Jack."

"If there's anything Cyrn likes as much as Dalish food, it's food with fancy spices," he says with a sad smile.

"Good. Maybe we could find you more of those bugs?"

"You know about that?"

"Yes, we--no, Jack--found some once while you were away."

"Oh. Well, those won't go very well in stew, unfortunately."

"Oh."

"Can you check that Cyrnarel's okay?" Mahanon asks, starting on the second rabbit. "Make sure they're not hurt?"

"Yes, of course." They duck into the tent, stretching their senses out toward the other elf.

Cyrnarel’s knee still aches, but it's something that will fade over time, and they hurt elsewhere from harming themself the previous day. They're still asleep, having dreams that don't make sense but aren't too distressed, but Mahanon will want them awake within the hour so that they can eat.  They're starving.

Knowing no better, Compassion quietly heals the rest of the hurts, and sits back on their heels to wait.

Cyrnarel eventually wakes again, both from the activity of Mahanon outside and Compassion's awkward presence. They blink at the spirit in confusion.

"Hello. It's us." Beat. "Please don't strike us." They're aware that Cyrnarel doesn't like them much.

"'m not." They're too tired to do so, anyway.

"All right. Mahanon is outside. He is worried."

"'m fine."

"It is…" Their nose wrinkles slightly. "'Supper' time."

"Mm." They stay where they are, not intending to get up.

"Shall I bring you some?"

"No, I'm good."

"Then you are coming out?"

"No."

"Hmm." They exit the tent. "Mahanon, they are awake."

"Good," he says, smiling. "They're coming out for food?"

"We don't think they will listen to us."

He sighs. "Try?"

"They don't like us. Me."

"They like Jack, at least."

"It's hard to switch. He puts up so many walls."

"They might come to like you in time." Mahanon serves a bowl of food and hands it to Jack, then serves another. "You eat, I'll bring them food."

"We can try, if you like. You can't take everything all on yourself."

"Try what?"

"To talk to them. Bring them food."

"If you want."

"Okay." They take a bowl and cautiously re-enter the tent.

Cyrnarel scowls up at them, still lying in their bedroll. "The fuck do you want?"

"We would like it very much if you would eat a little."

"Fuck off."

"Please? I don't mean just me."

"I said, fuck off."

“We--we're sorry." Anxiously, they put the bowl of stew down.

Cyrnarel scowls at compassion, stomach growling.

Compassion blinks hard, and though they don't recede, Jack is looking out through his own eyes, rimmed in light. Awkwardly, he signs, fingers leaving light-trails in the air. "[Please. Please?]"

They frown, not sure what's going on. "Huh?"

"[Please eat?]"

"You're being weird, shem."

"[What else is new?]"

"Don't wanna eat."

"[That's not new. But you need it.]"

They snort at the jest, but make some mild effort to sit up.

"[Your knee was badly hurt. You're very strong.]" The light has faded a little, but it's not gone.

"My knee was fine." They try to sound hostile, but fail pretty miserably, sitting up fully. "Feels fine."

“We healed it." The voice has an odd resonance, almost a layering.

"Was fine to start with," they grumble, scratching one of their arms. They pause for a moment, confused, and stick their hand in their sleeve. More confusion.

"[It was dislocated and torn. I've done similar stupid things--walking on an injury, or the like.]"

They pay little attention to Jack, more confused at the sudden disappearance of wounds, and therefore don't respond to him.

He waits. He is patient.

They remove their hand from their sleeve, feeling uneasy. "Don't wanna eat," they mumble again.

"[Please.]" Jack swallows, turns away a little, jaw tight.

"What's wrong?"

"We hate not being able to help."

"Don't need help."

"[We don't want you to die.]"

"'m not dying."

"Yet."

They frown at him, picking up the bowl and poking at its contents. "I'm Dalish, I'm not going to die easy."

"[You were out for hours.]" It might be a little difficult to understand his signs; he's not showing his face.

"I'm fine."

"Uh huh."

They rub their arm, still confused about that, and take a couple small bites of stew.

"[We feel things now. We don't know what's what anymore.]"

"You feel things?" They eat a little more since the stew's pretty tasty, but still slowly.

"Pain, fear, sorrow."

"Normal feelings."

"[But they're not mine.]"

"They're the spirit’s."

"[No, they're--they're other _people's_.]"

"What do you mean?"

"[You, Mahanon, even other people on the boat sometimes.]"

"You... feel our emotions."

"[Not all the time. Sometimes.]"

They frown into their stew. Half of it's gone already. "You don't."

"[I don't _want_ to. I can't help it.]"

"You can't because humans don't and it would be weird," Cyrnarel insists, gripping their spoon a little tighter.

"[It is weird.]"

"Not possible."

"[It's the spirit. It's starting to get through.]"

They shake their head negatively.

Jack sighs--and he is Jack now, no more light in his eyes--and flops onto his back. Cyrnarel didn't believe him about being Warden-Commander either, at first.

"You should eat," they tell him quietly. They know he wouldn't have eaten before bringing them their bowl.

"[I should. Smells good.]" He heaves himself upright and stops briefly to give Cyrnarel's arm a light squeeze before exiting the tent.

Mahanon looks up from his (second) bowl and immediately notices the lack of glow. "Jack!"

"Mm?" He's a little grey-faced; manifesting the spirit takes it out of him a little.

"Nothing, just, welcome back. Is Cyrn alright?"

"They're up, eating dinner." He yawns and reaches for a bowl.

"I'm glad." Mahanon waits for Jack to fill his bowl. "Have you ever wanted to visit Orlais?"

"Never thought of."

"I hear there's a college in Val Royeaux. Want to visit it?"

"College?" He makes an uncertain face.

"A university, with a huge library." Mahanon sounds almost excited about it.

"Sure," he says, not having the heart to say he doesn't care much for libraries.

"If you don't like it, we don't have to go," Mahanon adds quickly. "Cyrn won't like being in a city in the first place."

"[I--maybe I should wait outside. With them. You know what'll happen if I get caught.]"

Mahanon frowns. "No?"

"[I'm an abomination. And I can't fully control it.]"

"They don't know that."

"[Until I slip. Until they see it.]"

"We don't have to go," he says gently.

"[You should see it.]"

"If you're worried, we can stay away."

“I don't know."

"We don't have to decide now."

"Right."

"You're a mage, though. I figure you might like a giant library. I've dreamed of going there ever since hearing about it."

Jack grins, shakes his head. "[I'm not that kind of clever. I read slowly, and I don't like it much.]"

"Like Cyrn then." He grins. "They would've made an awful mage.

"[I am a very good mage. I am a poor _scholar_.]"

"Didn't say you were a bad mage. You're a pretty good one. Better than me, I think. But I do love books. We don't have many with the clan.""

"[It's a good thing to love.]"

"Almost makes me wish I grew up in a circle. Not really, but--well, books."

"[Books and not much else.]"

"Well, that's why I want to visit the library, at least."

"[We can talk more when we get closer.]"

"Yeah."

"[Do you think--do you think Zevran and Alistair will still stay with me? When they know?]"

Mahanon blinks. "I don't know. I don't know what they're like and I hardly know what your societies are like."

"Right."

"But they love you."

Jack nods. "[Cyrnarel said I should trust them.]"

"Do you trust them? In general? No, that's a silly question, I assume you do. No arranged partnerships or anything."

"[I trust them with my life--and they have delivered on that, many times.]"

"Then they should accept you as readily as you accept me."

He smiles a little. "Thank you."

"That's what fellow maleficarum are for, right? Reassuring each other?" Mahanon says with a smile, putting his empty bowl down.

"Ah--[I am an abomination, you are a maleficar. Let us be precise,]" he teases.

"I thought anyone breaking laws regarding magic was a maleficar?"

"[Oh, maybe that's it. I don't know.]"

"I've always been an apostate, anyhow. Almost always been a blood mage."

"[Maybe someday…things will be different. We won't have to be afraid all the time.]"

"Maybe for you."

"[For all of us,]" Jack insists.

"You're a human mage in a powerful position. I'm Dalish. If things get better in our lifetime, it'll be for you. For human mages."

“[Think past our lifetimes. For our children. Elves, too.]"

Mahanon's smile tightens painfully at the mention of children. "How many generations before us have asked for that?"

"[Too many to count, but we still fight.]"

"And how many fewer Dalish are there now than a century ago? Two centuries?" He shakes his head. "It's not getting better."

"[The world is cruel, people are cruel,]" he agrees, but he sounds no less determined.

Cyrnarel chooses this time to exit the tent, scowling at both of them as they scoop out some of the little remainder of the stew. Not a full second bowl, but it is extra, and they'll snap at anyone who says anything.

They sit next to Mahanon, looking oddly at Jack as they eat.

Jack isn't about to say anything; he's too busy practically licking his own bowl. Thank the Maker Compassion went back inside before dinner time.

"The fuck did you do to me, shem?" Their tone isn't outright threatening, but it's dangerous, and Mahanon gives them a concerned glance.

Jack blinks. "[What do you mean?]"

They pull back a sleeve, showing one of their scarred arms. One section of the skin has noticeably fewer scars and flatter skin, and they point to that. "What did you do?" They're a little bit angry, using it to cover up their fear and anxiety. Having magic cast on them in their sleep isn't something they're keen on.

"[I don't--I don't know, I don't remember--]" He draws back a little, distressed. "[I must have done it when the spirit was…at the fore.]"

"Why? What did you do? What was the purpose of that?"

"Don't know!"

"The fuck do you mean you don't know?"

Mahanon loops an arm around Cyrnarel's shoulders, pulling them into a hug to try to calm them down. This happens to be the opposite of a safe movement, as once Cyrnarel's over the initial shock, they bite Mahanon on the shoulder.

He lets go, stunned, and Cyrnarel runs off out of camp, tripping over their own feet as they go. They don't have any of their armor or weapons with them and are just wearing plain clothes without boots.

"Cyrnarel?" Jack sounds desperate, hands fluttering. "I don't know, I don't know."

Mahanon stares blankly in the direction they went, mind still trying to piece things together. He holds one hand over his shoulder.

"I don't know, I didn't mean it, I don't know," Jack says, unhelpfully.

"You..." Mahanon's lost the ability to put words and feelings together for the moment. "Stay here," he says instead, standing to go after Cyrnarel.

Jack whimpers and stays where he is.


	13. Sing the Chant

They both return about an hour later, Cyrnarel looking even more tired than earlier and Mahanon jumping at shadows.

Jack is upright now, fully armored. Spellweaver is still sheathed, but he's standing on the balls of his feet, looking around on high alert.

"[Thank the Maker you're back,]" he says, hardly even looking at them. He says nothing about what happened earlier. "[Arm yourselves. Hurry.]"

Cyrnarel moves quickly, dashing into the tent to put on armor and grab their most important weapons, and Mahanon follows a moment later once he's comprehended that. It doesn't take long for them to get prepared, having gotten used to it with their clan, and they're back out in ten minutes.

Cyrnarel has their large daggers strapped to their back, a few throwing knives and pouches of tools attached to their belt or jacket, and Mahanon has his sword and a couple of knives. However exhausted they both are, they're alert now.

"Darkspawn," Jack says breathlessly, rubbing his palms together and frowning. "[I want you to run. If they catch up to you--try to fight at range. Don't come in contact.]"

Mahanon grimaces--he doesn't have a staff, which means he may need to resort to blood magic again, which isn't ideal when dealing with darkspawn. Still, he dashes into the tent to grab two of their more important packs, tossing one over to Cyrnarel and carrying the other on his own back.

"Are you sure?" Cyrnarel asks, looking at their pack uncertainly. "We can help fight."

"[I'm sure. I'll signal when it's safe. I don't plan to die here.]"

"Where are they?" Mahanon asks. Ideally they'd run southwest, as southeast would lead them to the mountains and north to the coast, while west would lead them off course a bit.

Jack thinks for a moment. "North."

Southwest it is, then. "We can follow the road."

"We're not leaving you alone," Cyrnarel says, pitch rising. “Jack…”

Jack smiles at them. "I was made for this, kadan."

Cyrnarel scowls. "It's your turn to make dinner tomorrow," they say.

"Very well." Jack plays along, giving them a mocking little bow, Fereldan-style with his arms across his chest.

"When should we return?" Mahanon asks. "An hour out, then loop back?"

Jack turns to Mahanon. "[An hour, yes. That should do it. Remember--no contact. I won't have either of you catching the Blight.]"

"Don't get your leg carved up this time," Mahanon says. He grabs Cyrnarel's sleeve and nudges them away with him. "Dareth shiral!"

They run off into the woods, following the road from the forest.

And Jack runs into the opposite direction--grinning.

 

* * *

 

The elves return almost exactly two hours later, having moved swiftly in both directions and avoided contact with anyone and anything dangerous. Cyrnarel's gotten more and more anxious, almost shaking by the time they return, and Mahanon's still jumping at shadows.

Jack's fighting darkspawn; the clearing where he's made his stand is littered with stinking corpses. He's winded, and wounded, though not badly, and lightning and ice drive down around him. His breath steams in the unnaturally chill air.

That's when another wave of Darkspawn breaks the clearing.

Both elves remain hidden as the darkspawn rush in, skirting around camp to find advantageous spots to attack from, moving hastily. Mahanon flings a barrier up around Jack (having already protected both himself and Cyrnarel) before sending out a few sparse bolts of fire, trying to help but also conserve his mana. Cyrnarel tosses a few of their throwing knives, hindering some of the darkspawn expertly.

Jack rallies a little when he realizes his friends have returned, but with the fresh wave of enemies, the outlook is bleak nevertheless. He tells himself he's faced down worse odds, but he's seen Cyrnarel and Mahanon felled by a mere five or six Templars. Darkspawn may be less clever than Templars, but there are a great deal more than six.

An arrow strikes a chink in his armor, and he simply snaps the shaft off and keeps going.

Mahanon's barriers shimmer red the third time he casts them, blood dripping down his arm, and he abandons offense to scale a tree, hoping darkspawn can't climb. He scrabbles up one of a decent height, blood smearing on the bark while he seeks out proper handholds. Winded, he stops climbing halfway up, resuming casting with shaky hands.

Cyrnarel, still on the ground, runs out of throwing daggers quickly. They hesitate for a moment, but Jack’s under heavy pressure.

They rush into the fight, blades drawn, hitting darkspawn before they can get close to Jack. It’s tough; they’re not at all in proper shape right now, and their muscles ache terribly. Mahanon’s barriers save them more than once.

Jack is beginning to stumble, his body at its limit. He falls to one knee, staggers back upright, and nearly falls again.

There's a shout from the trees not far away and an armored group breaks into the fray: uniformed Grey Wardens. They're mostly human, but there's an elf with an unmarked face shooting from cover, and a dwarf beside them hurling bombs and bottles of acid with an axe in their other hand.

The newcomers are fresh, and the tide of the battle turns.

Mahanon refreshes the barriers on Cyrnarel and Jack, hoping he’s out of sight. Once he's certain they'll survive--the new Wardens have brought him a lot of relief--he climbs down the tree as fast as he can and flees south into the forest while they're distracted.

Cyrnarel remains. Mindful of the barrier, they step back from the fighting when they can't be certain it will last, moving into the space behind the Wardens. They fall to their knees with heavy breaths and drop their daggers. Breathing heavily, they wipe the sweat off their face. They'd like to think they're prepared to fight again if necessary, but they're at their limit. They’ve got to rely on the Wardens now.

The Wardens are cleaning up stragglers when Jack falls behind too and drops to his knees, face grey-pale and wheezing to catch his breath, face streaked with a mixture of sweat and blood--darkspawn and his own.

"You make... shit decisions... shem," Cyrnarel says, glancing over at him. They’re a little less tense now that they're sure they won't have to fight again. They cough a few times and wipe their face again.

They have a couple superficial wounds visible through some tears in their armor and some darkspawn blood on their armor, but none of the blood has entered their wounds. Some of it could possibly soak through their armor and reach their self-inflicted scars, however.

"Armor off," Jack gasps, bracing his hands on the ground. "Blood off."

"Huh?" They look up at him, not understanding.

"Take off armor." Jack’s elbows give out and he rolls onto his side.

Cyrnarel’s too tired to argue, and their mind hasn't quite caught up to "darkspawn blood is dangerous" yet. They unbuckle their jacket with unsteady hands and drop it on a patch of bloodless ground, leaving themself with a relatively clean (if sweaty) cotton shirt. Their pants have a bit of blood at the bottom, but not near any wounds.

"Good." Jack shuts his eyes, still gasping.

Cyrnarel's breathing calms as the sounds of battle die down and they watch the newcomers warily. They're obviously Wardens, but they're not sure if Jack trusts them, and they don't trust anyone who's not Dalish. Idly they note Mahanon’s absence.

Eyes still shut, Jack signs faintly (and sideways), "[I told you to stay at range.]"

"I'm not throwing... my good daggers."

"[Dangerous.]"

Cyrnarel crosses their arms, still sitting on their knees. They're keenly aware that the new Wardens can see their arms and that makes them feel particularly unsafe and uncertain. In as awkward a situation as this, they don’t need extra prejudice. "So says the shithead who... decided to fight on his own."

"[I'm fine, aren't I?]" Barring the bloody nose, chipped cheekbone, bruised ribs, cuts, and the broken arrow protruding from his shoulder.

"You're alive. And not... weird." They put emphasis on the last word, referring to Compassion with it, not wanting to mention the spirit outright in present company.

"[So far so good.]" Jack forces himself upright again, but his right arm still won't take any weight, so he sits back on his knees, swaying a little in place. "[Get behind me. You're going to have to translate for me; I won't let them harm you.]"

They grimace but push themself to their feet, grabbing their daggers and jacket from the ground and heading to where Jack lies. They plop down beside him and drop their stuff, then pull something out from one of their pouches and hold it out to him.

"Health potion."

"Thanks." He tosses it back in one quick swallow, and without even really thinking about it, leans a little against Cyrnarel.

"Shem," they say, suddenly aware that this guy is covered in darkspawn blood. "Don't."

"…ah." Jack raises himself up again. "Sorry."

"It's alright." Normally they wouldn't mind, but their mind has cleared enough to recall the dangers of darkspawn blood.

It's the dwarven Warden who arrives first, sheathing their axe to show they aren't a threat, though their gloved hand remains warily close to a flask on their belt.

"Ho there. How'd you get yourselves in this mess?"

Wincing, Jack raises his hands to sign again. "[We're just traveling. Came on them by chance.]"

Cyrnarel assumes Jack is going for "innocent swordsman" rather than "Hero of Ferelden" here. “We’re traveling,” Cyrnarel says after Jack signs.

"Just the two of you, eh?" the swarf asks.

"[Just the two of us.]"

"Just the two of us." Their mind's trying to work quickly to come up with some cover story, because Jack is obviously extremely competent at fighting. The burns on the darkspawn, though, and the flicker of barriers they'd had when help came...

"Dalish and a human--odd pair. Where are you headed?" The dwarf's eyes are keen, but they seem no more than alert and curious, so far.

"This tit's my clanmate. He's elf-blooded." They hate saying the words. Not because they don’t care for Jack, or because they have something against lying, but it seems wrong to claim Jack’s Dalish. "Went and got all Andrastian on us and now he's got it in his head to visit the Chantry in Valeaux. Valais Royal. Whatever. The capital of Orlais. Won't even get vallaslin. The, uh, Dalish tats,” they say, indicating their own face. “He’s a complete dolt, but we're not letting one of our own run off into shem lands alone. Human lands."

"Val Royeaux," the elven Warden replies helpfully, walking over to them.

"[I love the Chant,]" Jack lies helpfully, in case either of them can understand him.

"You start chanting, I start leaving," Cyrnarel promises.

"Got a nice sword, doesn't he?" the elf asks the dwarf. "Fancy for a Dalish."

Jack scowls. "[It's a Dalish sword, you idiot.]"

"Have you never seen proper Dalish craftsmanship?" Cyrnarel's not about to risk their neck by insulting these Wardens directly. "Len'alas'lath'din is a fine hunter who has been provided with one of our finest weapons." They almost wince at the name they give him. Why can’t they just watch their tongue for once?

"You know, I coulda sworn it was _snowing_ when we first came up over that hill," the dwarf remarks.

The elf swats them on the back of the head. "I told you you drank too much today." They frown at Jack. "This guy needs a look. He's covered in darkspawn blood. Might even work as a recruit if need be," they say admirably, looking at the bodies at camp. "There's really just the two of you?"

"[No, I'm not--I'm fine, I'm not--]" Jack shoots Cyrnarel a desperate look.

Cyrnarel squints at Jack. "I don't think he's caught the Blight," they say. "He doesn't look like he's dying."

"With that amount of blood?"

"Says he feels fine." They turn back to Jack. "Come on, lethallin, you need a wash. The holy aura of Andraste can't protect you from everything."

One of the other Wardens pipes up. "Hey, you two, check this out! A couple of these darkpawn've been burnt to a crisp!"

Jack struggles unsteadily to his feet, though he has to pause once upright for the dizziness to subside.

"[I'm fine,]" he sketches, eyes half-closed.

"See? He's fine. Missed out on dinner because he was too busy praying earlier, so he's a little dizzy." They're pretty sure Jack's going to kill them for this later. "We'll come back once he's all cleaned up and talk to you if he feels bad, yeah?"

Some of the other Wardens are murmuring and giving them suspicious glances. There's clear signs of magic on some of the corpses.

"Now, hold on, friend," the dwarf says, frowning. They walk closer to Cyrnarel, trying to speak in a low voice so Jack won't hear. "Listen, your friend's _lucky_ if he's not caught the blight. It's an awful death."

They snort. "Don't go giving him ideas, he'll be proselytizing to the rest of us about the glory of Andraste."

"I'm serious. He may well be dead within the week."

They look to Jack. "[Can they have a look at you? You won't seem Blighted, right?]"

"[No, it's all right.]" Jack thinks for a moment, then gestures subtly with one hand. "[Take my amulet.]"

They pull out a spare pair of gloves to put on. "He says he'll take a look over. I'm gonna give his jewelry a wash, though," they say, holding their hand out to him. "We might have good craftsmanship, but we still take care of our valuables, and I'd rather have a wash now anyway."

Jack hands over both necklaces with a nod of thanks, and turns to the Wardens. This much is an easy enough lie to pass off; they'll find him clear-eyed, with no sign of the Blight taking root.

 

* * *

 

Cyrnarel returns under an hour later, the ends of their pants damp and their jacket drying as it hangs over an arm. They've put the necklaces away in a pouch. The trio will need new tents, but they can't afford them. At least the packs inside the pitched tent likely aren't tainted.

Jack has, somehow or other, gotten the Wardens to leave him be, and they've moved on. He's standing alone on the edge of the killing field, head sunk almost to his chest, eyes half closed. He's removed his armor, but he's still bloody.

Cyrnarel pokes a spot on his back to get his attention. "You need a wash, too." They pick their steps carefully across the clearing, wanting to retrieve the packs from the tent. Jack's rolled up tent is unfortunately bloodsoaked.

"River?" Jack’s exhausted, and he sounds half-drunk.

"About twenty minutes south," they call out from inside the tent.

"All right." He plods off, leaning on trees as he goes.

Cyrnarel follows shortly after, picking up both their and Jack's remaining bags and catching up easily enough despite their own exhaustion. "They didn't trouble you much, yeah?"

"[They let me go  once they figured out I wasn't Blighted. I started going on about how I was truly blessed indeed; think they decided they didn't want me for a recruit after all.]"

"You start doing that to me, I'm ditching you," they say, grinning. The grin fades quickly. "I'm... sorry about earlier."

"[What for?]"

"Yelling and running off. That was... I dunno."

"Oh." He'd nearly forgotten. "[It's all right.]"

"I was a bit freaked out. Don't like weird shit," they mumble. Compassion more than fits the criteria for “weird shit.”

"[It's understandable.]" Jack stops briefly, bracing himself against another tree.

"Tired?"

"Mmhm. [Long fight.]"

"We can sleep by the river. Don't have to find a spot to camp,” Cyrnarel says. “It’s not that sheltered, but it’ll work.”

"Okay. [Think Mahanon will find us soon?]" Jack asks.

"Should do. He's a mage, but he can track us easy."

"Good." Jack breathes, keeps walking. "[I need to get this arrow out.]"

They missed the arrow earlier, but their eyes find it now, half the shaft in his shoulder. "Can you heal yourself?" they ask, looking at him with concern.

"[I think so. I'm not sure; I can't hear Compassion.]"

"I can stitch you if you need. My hands are steady enough for that."

"[Might be best. In case.]"

"In case?"

"[In case I can't heal it. It--hurts, it's like noise. I can't reach the spirit.]"

 

* * *

 

"Do you want me to wash your armor?" Cyrnarel asks when they reach the river.

"[Just be careful of the blood.]"

"Still got my gloves on. It'll be fine." They settle down to start cleaning the armor, heaving a sigh of relief at finally being able to sit.

Jack edges into the river himself. Normally he'd just wade in, but now once he's in the shallows, he sits down and edges further in, not trusting himself not to fall and be swept away. There, instead of washing, he simply sits, head bowed, waiting for the worst of the blood to wash away with the current. Cyrnarel doesn't mind the odd behavior--Jack is odd, after all--and dries the metal bits of armor while leaving the leather and cloth out to air dry.

Finally, shakily, Jack begins rubbing what's left of the blood off, favoring his hurt arm. He ducks his head under, washing blood and sweat out of his hair. Then he begins to examine the broken shaft protruding from his shoulder, prodding at the edges of the wound.

"You need me to get that out for you?" Cyrnarel asks, sitting on the bank. They’re trying to stay awake, but their body's trying to get them to fall asleep.

"[I can take it out, but you'll need to stitch it; it's barbed.]"

"Rinse it and get back on the banks, then." They rouse themself, pulling a kit out of one of the salvaged bags. "And make sure you can control your magic. You've got to sterilize the needle for me."

Jack nods. The cold water ought to keep it from bleeding much as well. He slips down so he's up to his neck in the river and sets his hand around the shaft, as close to the skin as he can get.

One quick wrench, and…

He blacks out, going under.

"Fuck," Cyrnarel says, tossing the kit aside. They stand up immediately, almost falling over from the dizziness, and steady themself against a tree. They remove their daggers, kick off their boots, and unstrap a few valuable pouches, then hop into the river.

It's freezing and takes the breath out of their lungs, but they swim with the current, working hard to keep their head above the water. By the time they reach Jack, he's been out for two minutes, and of course he's floated off to a spot that's too deep for Cyrnarel to stand in.

They push his head above water first, their own head dipping under for a moment. Jack comes to after a moment, chokes, and thrashes, not understanding where he is.

Cyrnarel curses inwardly, losing their grip on him before grabbing him again. "Calm down, shem," they growl hostilely. They can't pull him back to shore if he's thrashing, and treading water--even with the current moving them gradually along--is really taking a toll on them, especially with how chill it is.

The familiar voice calms Jack a little at least, and he stills, tries to float.

It takes a mountain of effort, but Cyrnarel gets Jack onto the bank, then tries to push him back along the river to where their stuff is. It's not far, but they can't carry Jack there.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." Jack can at least drag himself with his good arm and the aid of his legs.

Once they get both of them back onto the bank--dripping water everywhere, clothes soaked--Cyrnarel sets to stitching Jack's wound. "Fire," they croak, holding out the needle.

It takes him a couple of tries, but Jack manages to heat the needle to a quick cherry before letting his head fall back. The wound is ugly, deep, ragged, and bleeding freely.

Cyrnarel dabs away some of the blood with a relatively clean (if wet) cloth, then sets about stitching it expertly. It hurts like hell, no doubt, but they don't have any poultice to spread on it. They've stitched wounds like this before, though.

Jack blacks out once or twice more before it's done, though he doesn't stay out for long. "'S it over?" he asks once he feels he can’t take anymore, voice thready.

"Yeah," Cyrnarel responds, replacing the needle kit in their pack. They hand Jack a bedroll and start to strip themself naked. At least they've got a dry change of smallclothes.

Jack holds it loosely. "'m cold."

"Strip," they say, changing into the fresh smallclothes and laying out their armor and clothes to dry. They pull out another bedroll for themself.

Obediently, Jack begins tugging his clothes off. It's a long process with only one usable arm, but he manages it, then sits, shivering.

"Bed." Cyrnarel gets into their own bedroll and lie down near him.

"[Please--I don't want to be alone.]"

"'m here."

"'Kay." With some fumbling, Jack unrolls his bedroll and crawls inside.

Cyrnarel's out in minutes, beyond exhausted after the events of the day. Jack is too, but he sleeps poorly, the pain waking him often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider commenting! There's 11 documents dedicated to this RP/fic, and this chapter is part of document 2. Without comments, I (TheLynx) can't tell how much interest there is in this fic. That's why things have been going slowly--I've prioritized a lot of other things over editing this RP to put on AO3 due to a perceived lack of interest.


	14. Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slow chapter. Next chapter gets interesting!

Cyrnarel wakes at noon the next day, blinking in the light. There's a moment of confusion before they realize where they are and why they don't have a tent.

Mahanon isn't there.

Jack is sitting up already, gazing blearily into space, one hand pressed over his wounded shoulder. "Cyrnarel?"

"Hm?"

"Where is Mahanon?"

"Dunno." The worry hasn't hit them yet.

"Oh."

"Hm." They sit up slowly, wincing at how stiff their muscles are. "Fuck."

Jack half chuckles, breathy. "[We had a time of it.]"

"That was shit." They yawn loudly. "My clothes dry? ...the fuck, it's midday?"

"…it is?"

"The sun's at midpoint."

Jack squints up at the sun. "Didn't notice."

Cyrnarel frowns, getting out from their bedroll to start dressing themself. Their wounds from yesterday are minor, but they're even thinner than the previous time Jack saw them. "Less drowning, next time."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault."

"[I hurt all over.]"

"I'll make you a salve." They haven't even eaten yet, and they'd have to gather the ingredients for a salve, but they don't mind.

"[Hold off,]” Jack signs. “[We can afford to rest, and eat. I've hurt worse than this.]"

"Don't matter. It'll help you heal quick and avoid infection."

"[I'll do that myself.]"

"Fine," they grumble, and look around. "Where's Mahanon?"

"Don't know."

Reasonably, the two of them should sit down and eat before finding Mahanon. "Let's look for him."

"[Let's have breakfast and gather ourselves first.]"

"We should find him. He hasn't found us,” Cyrnarel says. They look about, scanning the area.

"[We're no help if we fall over a mile down the road. Let's be sensible.]"

They frown, sitting down on their bedroll again. "What if he's blighted?" they whisper.

"[He's not. He kept his distance.]" Unlike some.

"What if he's out there, dying, because we're not there to help?" Cyrnarel chews at their lip.

"[He's not! And we're no help if we can hardly walk, anyway.]"

"I can walk," they mumble, staring down at their bedroll. Despite their long sleep, they're exhausted.

"[Well, maybe I can't.]"

"Fine." Cyrnarel’s not sure how much dried food they've got left. They glance over at the river: It’s a good source of fresh food, but that would take energy they're only pretending to have.

Jack's had the same thought. "[I'll catch some fish.]"

"I'll help."

He clicks his tongue. "[It won't take but a moment; I have my talents. Just stay away from the water.]"

They stay on their bedroll, giving him a glance. "How're you gonna catch fish with magic?"

Jack grins crookedly. "Watch and learn!"

They grumble to themself in elvish, still blinking sleepily, and watch.

Jack goes to the water's edge, and using just hands and body, begins to cast. It's a surprisingly complex spell to catch a few fish, but when he releases, lightning flies from his fingers and catches in the water, skimming over waves and ripples like a skipped stone.

For a moment, it appears that nothing has happened. And then stunned fish begin floating to the surface, and Jack wades in to gather them up.

Cyrnarel frowns. "But then you get the tiny ones as well."

"Not dead, just stunned. Small can swim away."

"Weird. Convenient, but weird."

"Mmhm!" He comes out of the water with an armful of fish, depositing them on the bank so he can sit and gut them with his dagger.

Cyrnarel gets up again, steadying themself against the dizziness, and starts to wander off.

"[Where're you going?]"

"Wood. For the fire." They're unsteady, but might not fall over.

"Mm." He watches, a little worried, but not enough to make it worth a fight.

The come back about twenty minutes later with an armful of sticks and twigs, dropping them in the middle of their little camp. They sit down heavily on their bedroll, rubbing their forehead.

"Okay?"

"'m fine." 

"Okay." Jack lights the fire to begin cooking the fish. It'll be a simple meal, but serviceable.

Cyrnarel picks at one of their pouches. "Got some spices. After, we find Mahanon, yeah?"

"Yes. [You'll have some?]"

"I guess," they say reluctantly.

"Good, good." He hums to himself, turning the fish over, and sucking a finger when he scalds himself on one. "[Season them as you like.]"

They do so, careful to conserve some of the herbs they've got, still wrinkling their nose at the fishy smell. "Does anyone actually choose to eat these slimy things?"

"[I don't mind them. They're not slimy after they're cooked.]"

They look at him like he just signed something dirty and they sit back down by the fire.

"[I'm Fereldan though.]"

"So am I."

"[All right, I'm human and Fereldan. We're not known for our food.]"

"Neither are the Dalish," Cyrnarel points out.

"[You eat those bugs, they're pretty tasty.]"

"Most shemlen would turn their noses up at us for it."

"[I liked them.]"

"Well, you're weird for a shem, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Ellana likes fish." They make another face. "It's gross. She prepares it whenever she gets a chance."

"[Who is Ellana?]" Jack tugs a fish out of the fire, and shoves one toward Cyrnarel as well.

They accept the fish, poking a couple unsavory bits off of it first. "Mahanon's older sister. She's a hunter."

"[Oh. Do you hunt together?]"

"Sometimes, yeah." They start nibbling at the food. "She's better than me, like her mamae."

"[It sounds nice.]"

"Hunting?"

"[Mmhm. With people.]"

"Some of it's more like defending the clan. Sorta like this, just traveling, but more alert."

"[I'd probably be better at that than hunting food.]"

"Says the guy who just nabbed us a full meal like that," they say, snapping their fingers. "Shit meal, but fast."

"[And I can lay a decent snare, but--that's about it. Enough to survive on my own, and not much more.]"

"You ever caught a deer?"

"[No, just… birds, rabbits, fish.]"

"Maybe we'll hunt one together. I can teach you how to use a bow." Cyrnarel frowns at the bones of the fish. "We'd have to buy one first. Or you’d make one."

Jack drops his head to hide his smile. "[There's plenty of time.]"

They pick up a second fish. "How's a Circle mage learn to use a sword in the first place?"   
  


"[A spirit taught me.]" A pause. "[Well--Alistair and Sten taught me. The spirit helped.]"

"It's always spirits, isn't it?"

"[Yes. This one was alive once, though,]" Jack signs. “[Unlike most.]”

"Weird."

"[Very. Now, because of Sten and Alistair--I can still hold my own, even if my magic is suppressed.]"

"Mahanon learned from his mamae and some of the other older hunters. He doesn't... he doesn't trust his magic all the time."

"Mm…" Jack frowns, thinking. "[I wonder if I could… use the spirit to sense him. On purpose, I mean.]"

"Might need it. If he's hurt, or hiding..." They start to chew on their lip.

"[You might have to deal with Compassion for a while.]"

"They're not you," Cyrnarel says quietly.

"[I know that,]” Jack signs. “[But they can… feel things. I can try to do it without… bringing them out, but it's not like I know much about this.]"

"It's your decision," they say.

"[I'll try it.]" It's worthwhile to find Mahanon, and even if the spirit takes over for a while, he can come back and soothe Cyrnarel later. He finishes off his second fish and retreats a little way away, shutting his eyes.

It's hard to get a grip on the spirit-sense when he's  _ trying _ , and harder still to try to feel past Cyrnarel, who is  _ right there _ , but finally he manages it. Light is shining from under his closed eyelids, but he's still conscious in his body. Cyrnarel sits and waits quietly, unnerved and disappointed by the spirit glow.

Jack casts his senses out as far as he can, trying to think of Mahanon--his smiles, his tics, the way he smells after lovemaking. He's got to be out there somewhere.

Then he catches it. He can sense Mahanon a couple of miles away in the woods, frightened but not panicked. Stationary. Hungry and thirsty, too. His muscles ache and he's tense.

Jack speaks very softly, afraid of losing the sensation. "I feel him. Not far."

Cyrnarel perks up, relieved that it still sounds like Jack's there. "Can you follow him?"

"Think so. He's…fine. Tired, scared; not hurt."

"Scared?" Cyrnarel dashes about camp, packing everything away.

"Some." Jack shakes himself out of his trance, struggling to keep Mahanon in the back of his mind. "Bring fish."

Cyrnarel pauses to wrap two of the fish in a cloth and store them in a pouch, bouncing on their toes. "Can you carry your stuff? Let's go."

Jack nods, shouldering his pack, and sets off in the direction his spirit-sense leads him. Cyrnarel follows right on his heels.

When they reach Mahanon, he's alone, leaning against a tree. He's curled in on himself, holding his knees tight to his chest, forehead resting on them. His jaw is visibly tense. He's uninjured, except for the dried blood on his arm and hand from yesterday.

"Ma'nehn," Cyrnarel says, approaching him slowly. Jack hangs back. Mahanon may well be hallucinating, and there's no need to frighten him more than necessary.

Cyrnarel kneels down next to him, murmuring in elvish, and touches his shoulder gently. His head jerks up and body tenses, but Cyrnarel grips his shoulder firmly, still talking, until he relaxes again. He's got dark circles under his eyes and his lips are chapped.

Eventually he leans into Cyrnarel's touch, letting the other elf pull him into a hug, and he glances at Jack, acknowledging the human's presence.

Jack approaches him then, smiling. "Found you."

Mahanon’s expression stays flat and his eyes fall to the ground.

"We brought food," Cyrn says, pulling out the pouch and holding it out to Jack.

Jack opens it for him, offering a fish to Mahanon. "Caught them."

Mahanon doesn't look at it, so Cyrnarel takes one of his hands and guides it, helping him hold the fish. It takes a bit of effort to get him to eat, but eventually he does, and he scarfs down the second fish ravenously, some color and activity returning to his face. Cyrnarel offers him some water too, and he drinks deeply, then leans back against the tree comfortably. Jack breathes, relieved, and sits on the ground.

"What happened?" Mahanon asks, voice raspy.

"[Not much,]” Jack signs. “[Wardens let us go, we moved camp, and came to find you.]"

"I didn't want them to... to see I was a blood mage."

"Smart."

Mahanon's taking a look at the surroundings. "Did you forget the tents?"

Jack frowns, shakes his head. "[They were… tainted.]"

Mahanon frowns, expression completely serious. "That could make sex a bit awkward."

"[Yes, we'll just have to do it right out in the open,]" Jack deadpans.

"Do you think the squirrels will mind?"

"[Yes.]"

"Just tell me to leave camp," Cyrnarel says, face beet red.

Jack chuckles. "[You should have heard the tale Cyrn spun to get the Wardens off our backs, Mahanon. Worked like a charm.]"

"They didn't say they were working for you again this time, did they?" Mahanon asks. Cyrnarel pointedly looks away.

"[No, they said I was an elf-blooded convert to Andrastianism. Even gave me an elven name--something horrid, I'm sure.]"

"Bit tall for an elfblooded," Mahanon muses. "What name?"

"Len'alas'lath'din," Cyrnarel mutters. Mahanon chokes on his laugh.

"[Anyway... Once they figured I wasn't blighted, I started shouting 'I am blessed of Andraste indeed!' and they let me go right off.]"

"Thank the Creators that was an act," Mahanon says. Cyrnarel's smiling at him; it's good to see him in a good mood.

"[I would have never come up with it on my own. I'm an awful liar.]"

"So's Cyrn."

"Am not."

Mahanon leans forward and gently kisses their lips. "Are too."

"[Well, to my mind--it worked, eh?]"

"Luckily."

"Nothing lucky about it," Cyrnarel says.

"[Well, I think it was clever.]"

"See? Even Jack thinks I'm clever." They grin. Mahanon rolls his eyes. Jack grins too, pleased to have this bit of normalcy amidst all their troubles.

"Hm..." Mahanon glances at their packs again. "Cyrnarel, leave camp?"

They frown at him. "What?"

"Leave?"

"Why?"

Jack frowns, looking from one to the other. He doesn't understand either.

"You did say to ask you to leave camp if--"

"You fucking asshole," they say wryly.

"Tch!" Jack laughs. "[Not now, silly]."

Mahanon puts his hand on his chest in mock pain. "The rejection stings, lethallin."

Cyrnarel kisses his cheek. "Should we camp here until the morning?"

"We've got plenty of daylight to travel by."

"And you need sleep."

Mahanon frowns. "I've gone nights without sleep before."

"Jack needs rest."

Jack glances at Cyrnarel, then back to Mahanon, and shrugs his good shoulder. "[It's true. I'm run ragged. Sorry.]"

Mahanon sighs in defeat. "Alright, fine, we can stay here for the day. But it does get a little boring without--"

Cyrnarel sighs dramatically and pulls a pouch out of their bag, dropping it on Mahanon's lap. "I'm sure you can find a nice private spot somewhere in these woods."

Mahanon glances down. "Dirthara ma," he mumbles, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck.

"[ _ You're _ blushing?]" Jack signs, eyebrows raised.

"My body works the same as any other and I am therefore capable of blushing."

"[Ha, ha. You know what I mean.]"

"It's bigger than you."

"[What is?]"

Mahanon picks up the pouch and waves it about.

It's Jack's turn to blush. "[Well. I'm only human.]"

"Least he's not comparing  _ us _ ," Cyrnarel says.

"Jack is--"

Cyrnarel shoves a hand over Mahanon's mouth. " _ Least he's not comparing us _ ," they repeat slowly. Mahanon playfully licks Cyrnarel’s hand in response, and they make a squeaking sound while quickly taking their hand back.

"[I'm going to bed,]” Jack signs. “[You have fun.]"

"Mahanon is sleeping too." Mahanon gives Cyrnarel a tired glare.

"[We're all sleeping.]"

Mahanon finally stands up, stretching his stiff muscles. "I suppose I could do with some sleep."

"[As you please.]" Jack stretches himself out on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow us on tumblr as users [lynxeon](http://lynxeon.tumblr.com/) and [j4ckwynand](http://j4ckwynand.tumblr.com/).


	15. Crowded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is still alive!
> 
> Mild/brief NSFW ahead, in the middle of the chapter. Lots of things happening today!

They get rained on once or twice in the next week or so, but for the most part they make it all right, and there are no more attacks. Jack is cheerful and in good spirits, and Compassion is in evidence only rarely (although Jack occasionally slips into speaking of himself in the plural).

Tonight, though, he can't sleep. His spirit sense is troubling him, not giving him anything clear, just snatches of Mahanon and Cyrnarel's dreams and emotions. When he does drift off, they blur into dreams of demons and darkspawn, and he wakes sweating.

He shifts position again and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. As if it wasn't hard enough to sleep already, he could swear he hears Cyrnarel's heartbeat. And then Mahanon's, and then all at once it's a cacophony.

He rolls over and shoves at Mahanon's shoulder, still groggy. "Shhh. Quit it."

Mahanon, already almost awake, is now a little more aware of his surroundings. "Hmm?" he asks, not really hearing or understanding what Jack said. Cyrnarel remains asleep behind him, curled up against his back and facing away.

"Shh. Y'r so loud."

"I'm just sleeping," he whispers.

"Heart's so loud."

"I'm not going to stop it for you." 

Jack half-sits up, eyes shining faintly, unnaturally. "[You're…crowded.]"

"I can't really give you more space." He's in the middle, after all.

"[You have three heartbeats. That's too many.]"

He sighs. "Go back to sleep, Jack."

"But…" Jacksighs, closing his eyes and trying to tune out the sound.

Mahanon closes his eyes again as well, drifting off again quickly.

Jack manages to drift back to sleep, but by morning…the sound is still there. It's just not so overwhelming.

Mahanon wakes early, even before Jack, and has meat from some mystery animal roasting on the fire when Jack wakes up. Cyrnarel's curled up tightly against Jack's chest, making that not-quite-snore sound they make when they sleep.

Jack lifts his head. "Mahanon?" He speaks softly, not wanting to wake Cyrn.

"Yeah?" He looks back at Jack, pulling his hand out from the fire.

"I still hear it."

He frowns. "Hear what?" He doesn't recall their nighttime conversation,

"Heartbeats."

"Pardon?"

"Hear heartbeats."

"Oh." Mahanon shakes his head. Everyone has heartbeats. "Compassion's doing?"

"Mmhm."

"I hope it stops bothering you soon, then."

"You have extra," Jack says.

Mahanon chuckles. "My heart's pretty normal, last I checked."

Cyrnarel stirs a little bit, snuggling closer.

"Small other ones." And that's when it occurs to him. He freezes.

It doesn't hit Mahanon, who tilts his head. "I don't understand."

Jack carefully dislodges his arm from Cyrnarel, so he can sign. "[Have you…bled recently?]"

"[No, but I've been overwhelmingly stressed.]" Mahanon signs so as not to disturb Cyrnarel.

"[I think you're pregnant.]"

He pauses, hands held in front of him. "Oh." His face stays blank as he tries to process this.

Jack watches him, anxious.

He moves his hands slowly. "[You indicated... plural?]"

"[You, and two others.]"

"Oh." He turns from Jack to face the fire and the food instead.

Jack's swamped briefly by a wave of emotion, a confusing mixture of joy and fear. But it's not all bad, and if it were him, he'd need time to sort it out as well. He goes back to holding Cyrnarel, trying to push the spirit-sense to the back of his mind.

Mahanon relaxes and eats over the next hour, and Cyrnarel wakes up with a growling stomach. Eyes closed, they snuggle close to Jack, nuzzling his neck and murmuring in elvish as they start to wake up.

"Morning, kadan," Jack murmurs. He likes to speak when Cyrnarel wakes, just so they know it's him and not some strange human.

They open their eyes dazedly and jerk back a couple inches. "Fenedhis," they say, starting to blush.

Mahanon snickers from the fire.

"[What's that mean?]"

"Wolf dick," Mahanon supplies helpfully. "They thought you were me."

Cyrnarel grumbles to themself and gets up from the bedroll to dress.

"[Oh. Sorry.]"  Jack scoots out himself, reaching for his clothes.

Cyrnarel doesn't see the response. They help themself to food today, making a face at the gamey meat, but at least it's not fish. Mahanon's a visible bundle of nerves, filled with nervous energy and looking about ready to get up and pace around camp. Jack's looking a little awkward himself, keeping his eyes down as he eats. It ought to have been up to Mahanon to find out he was pregnant, and to disclose it when he felt ready, and he feels rather as if he's invaded something, however unintentional it may have been.

"Did something happen between you two?" Cyrnarel asks Jack. They don't want to be nosy, but they're both acting odd.

"[Not…really. I'm just. Feeling a lot.]"

"It's the Beyond," Mahanon says. "The veil's a little thin here, I think."

Cyrnarel looks a little hurt--they know they're being lied to--and eats their food dejectedly.

Jack doesn't like it, but…it's also not his to tell. He nudges Cyrnarel with a toe, trying to be reassuring.

They scoot away from him a little bit. They really do not like being lied to.

 

* * *

The rest of the day carries on in similar awkwardness as they travel, almost reaching Val Royeaux. They still haven't decided whether to enter or not. Cyrnarel pointedly stays away from them both when they stop to camp for the night.

"[You ought to tell them,]" Jack finally says to Mahanon. "[They probably think it's something awful.]"

He smiles at Jack sheepishly. "[I don't know how to tell them.]"

"[It's easy. Just two words. Three, if you want to say their name first.]"

"Pff. [You try saying it.]"

"[I will if you want me to.]"

He waves his hands wildly. "Noooo, nonono."

"[Okay.]"

Cyrnarel's looking over at them now, and Mahanon shifts nervously. "You two sorted out your problems yet?"

"Working on!" He turns to Mahanon, making small signs. "[Come on. It's a good thing, right? You can do it.]"

"[I don't know. What if...]" He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "[I'm not good at saying things.]"

"[I'm awful at it, but I still get by.]"

"[I haven't even known for a full day!]"

"[Well. It's up to you, in the end. You could tell them you're just waiting until you're ready, so at least they know you're not… hiding things from them on purpose.]"

"[But they'll know I'm hiding something.]" He frowns, glancing at Cyrnarel. "[I don't hide things from them.]"

"[It's all right to keep something to yourself for a while, but--we ought to be honest, in some way.]"

"[I should tell them.]" Mahanon buries his face in his hands. "Ugh."

Jack grips his shoulder gently. "It's okay."

"Cyrn," Mahanon says, waving hesitantly at the other elf. Cyrnarel frowns and walks over, sitting down next to the two of them. Mahanon wrings his hands together, opening and closing his mouth a few times while Cyrnarel watches expectantly.

"[Do you want me to leave you alone?]" Jack asks.

"No, it's... it could be... they could be..." He buries his face in his hands again.

Cyrnarel frowns. "Is this about Val Royeaux?"

"It's okay," Jack says again.

"You're... seriously proposing a threesome?" Cyrnarel guesses. It’s certainly not something that would be hidden from them, but they don’t exactly have a lot of things to guess at.

"Yes! Yes." Mahanon blurts, flustered. "Well, no, no I'm not, but yes I would."

Jack snorts, shaking his head.

"Jack's leaving us?" they guess again.

He shakes his head again, more seriously.

"I'm shit at guessing, you know."

"I'm pregnant."

There's a pause while Mahanon lets Cyrnarel take this in, but they look towards Jack after a minute, almost hostile. "And you told me second."

Jack raises his hands as if to shield himself. "No!"

"You found out third, actually," Mahanon says with a nervous laugh. "I found out second."

"What?"

"Or you're fourth. Depends where Compassion comes in. Jack... sensed it."

"[Something like that.]"

"Oh. I... sorry," they say, feeling a bit guilty for their assumption. "You're... pregnant."

"Yeah."

They reach out tentatively to touch his stomach with their fingers. Not that they can feel anything, but they do so anyway, and Mahanon lets a small, proud smile onto his face. Jack ducks his head, reddening a little.

Cyrnarel's expression of wonder turns to a blush a couple minutes later. "Who is... I mean... I don't...?"

Mahanon shrugs. "All I know is that there's twins."

"Twins," Cyrnarel repeats, removing their hand.

Jack's head jerks up. He'd been so busy being surprised that he hadn't stopped to consider that the babies might be  _ his _ .

Mahanon looks at Jack. "What is it?"

"[I never thought of that. That they could be--that I could have--]"

Mahanon's expression turns worried. "Is this a problem?"

"No, no." He's just… a little stunned at the thought.

Cyrnarel pulls Mahanon into a kiss, which Mahanon eventually breaks off for the sake of not alienating their audience. "Well... how about that threesome?" Mahanon proposes.

Jack grins, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not sleeping with a shem," Cyrnarel says, scowling.

"You suggested it."

"Did not!"

Mahanon flicks them on the nose. "You absolutely did."

Jack shakes his head, chuckling.

"Well,  _ someone's _ not entirely opposed to the idea," Mahanon says.

"You--" Jack points two fingers, one at each of them. "Ridiculous. I l--" Well. Hmm. He swallows that.

"What is it?" Cyrnarel asks, still blushing and scowling.

"Nothing."

"Well, if we're not going to do that, who wants to celebrate with me first?" Mahanon looks between both of them and Cyrnarel covers their face with a hand.

"[Draw straws? Flip a coin? Take auspices?]" Jack asks.

"Dunno, I think Cyrn might get sick if they keep all that blood in their face." They roll their eyes at that, face still red. They're not at all used to talking about sex in front of someone else.

"[Hmm. You two enjoy yourselves. I'll go for a walk.]"

"You do that," Mahanon says before pulling Cyrnarel straight into a passionate kiss, making them whimper.

Jack disappears quite quickly. He's got a bit of thinking to do, as it happens. It's one thing to know he's got a child somewhere that he's never seen and never will, quite another to have possibly gotten his friend and traveling companion with child.

 

* * *

"So," Mahanon says, lying on top of Jack, chest-to-chest, still naked after their lovemaking. Cyrnarel hasn't yet returned. "Val Royeaux."

"Val Royeaux," he echoes sleepily, sated and content.

"We can wander the city for a day. Can't do much without coin."

"Mm…library?"

"Do you want to go there?"

"Mmhm." Or at least--he wants to make Mahanon happy, and going to a library shouldn't hurt him any.

Mahanon kisses his chest. "Do you think you'd be able to sneak out some books?"

"Oh, yes. [I stole dozens from the Tower's library.]"

"Could you get some for me?"

"Mmhm."

"You'll have to see if they've got something on elven history or magic. Surely they've got something stolen from the Dalish."

"[Dalish books.] Got it."

"And maybe something on magical theory. I haven't even seen any such books on my own."

"[I'll look for them.]"

"Thanks. I'd go in there with you, but." Mahanon shrugs.

"[Why not?]"

"Elves aren't allowed on university grounds. Except as servants, that is."

"Oh." Jack frowns. "[Fuckers.]"

"Yeah," Mahanon agrees, grinding his hips down against Jack's. "But it'll be nice to visit the city."

"Nn… Yeah."

He keeps up the slow movement. "Maybe we'll find a way to get some coin. There's always nobles not looking carefully enough."

"[I could always put up the Andrastian convert act again,]" he says, though his hands are getting a little shaky.

"Wouldn't be hard to pick some pockets that way," he muses.

"Mm… mmhm."

"Elfblooded or not, I hope..." He trails off as he angles his hips to let Jack's cock slip in again. "I hope you realize my kids are going have elven names."

"[Just--just make it something I can pronounce.]"

"Depends, can you--ah--pronounce Istimaethoriel?"

"Isti--mae--yes."

"Good, because that's their last name." He picks up the pace. "Might go with Sulahn. Or Nehn. Sam--fuck--Samahl, too, maybe."

"Like Sulahn," he gasps, gripping Mahanon's hips.

"It means 'dance'," he says. "Not that all... all names have a meaning." His breath's coming in pants now. "Cyrn's doesn't."

"Yours?"

"Something like... moving towards a good place. Following a good path." He grins. "It fits." He moans and leans down to nip at Jack's neck.

He shivers. "Jack means… nothing, nobody. Anybody."

"It's still a good name."

"Like it. Simple." He shuts his eyes, overwhelmed by sensations.

Mahanon drops the conversation, moving faster and rubbing himself until they both come again. This time he rolls off of Jack to lie beside him, while still keeping a lot of contact between them.

Jack snuggles close, breathing heavily against Mahanon's neck. "Two children, two names."

He kisses Jack's cheek. "Mm." He's exhausted.

"Mm. Sleep."

"Wash first."

He groans. "Why?" It's a rhetorical question, he knows why. He's just  _ so _ sleepy.

"I'm not sure Cyrn will let you live if you cuddle up to them like this."

"Ugh. Fine."

"Mm." He kisses Jack again. "We can wash together."

"Okay."

 

* * *

When they enter Val Royeaux the next day, Cyrnarel grumbling and Mahanon practically bouncing (and glowing), they're let in easily but watched like hawks by half the people around them. It even makes Mahanon's skin crawl, and within minutes his smile feels forced.

"Maybe we should just leave."

Jack's shoulders stay near his ears; he's uncomfortable too. "[We need money.]" At least his signing is relatively unlikely to be understood by the Orlesians.

"I get the feeling they might throw us in jail no matter what we do," Mahanon mutters. Cyrnarel's particularly jumpy as well.

"[That's no good. Maybe we should go.]"

Mahanon freezes as he sees some templars round a corner.

"Good idea," Cyrnarel says.

"[Not too fast. Don't attract attention.]" He's doing his best to amble, himself, but he naturally has a rather purposeful gait.

They follow close behind, but they're visibly anxious. The templars have probably noticed them by now--two nervous Dalish stand out pretty clearly. Jack is humming faintly under his breath, a nervous response as he tries to keep his fingers from flicking, which is only bound to look suspicious. Humming is nonchalant, at least.

Unfortunately, it's not long until a few templars wander up to them.

"It's not often we see Dalish in town," one says.

“Especially not near the market!" a second adds.

"Now, you're not causing trouble here, are you?" the first one says. "Would be a shame if you were."

"No trouble," Jack says blandly, raising empty hands. "Pass through."

"And what would a couple of savage knife-ears want from Val Royeaux?"

"Do they even have coin? You know they’ve got sticky fingers."

The first templar considers this. "Tell you what: You prove you've got coin and you can be on your way."

Mahanon and Cyrnarel aren't sure what to do. They can't even pay the bribe in the first place, but they keep their faces flat.

Jack sighs, and tugs one of his rings off his finger; it's not one of his love tokens, but he's fond of it, and he'd have at least liked to  _ sell _ it. It's gold, though, at least. He holds it up. "Happy?"

The Templars grin. "Is that a bribe, ser?" the second one asks. "Those are illegal, you know."

A third Templar pulls Cyrnarel's arms behind their back and they look about ready to panic. "We've got a nice prison on the docks for you lads."

"Let go," Jack snarls, slipping the ring back on his finger. "Or we'll see who  _ pays _ ."

The first one laughs. "Threatening a templar, are you?"

"What do you want?" Mahanon asks as a fourth grabs him.

"You're attempting to bribe and threaten this city's protectors," the first says, gesturing to the second to restrain Jack. "You're breaking the law."

They've gained a bit of a crowd now, all standing at a distance.

Jack speaks up. "Duel me."

 

Well…he has a limited amount of verbal words, and Mahanon and Cyrnarel can't translate.  "I win, we go."

"You can't duel your way out of prison."

One of the templars moves behind Jack to try to grab his wrists.

Mahanon and Cyrnarel are both still, not fighting the templars holding them, but both are terrified.

Jack could get away, he knows he could--but then they'd hurt his friends. He's got a better chance of breaking them all out of prison than of getting them out of this unscathed. He growls, and puts up a token resistance, but allows the templar to take him. He tells himself he's escaped worse than a couple of thickheaded templars, but bile rises in his throat all the same at the idea of being stripped and locked in a cell.

 

* * *

All of their packs, jewelry, and armor is taken, leaving them in just their boots and plainclothes in the poorly lit cells by the docks. They've each got their own cell, and there's only a few others down there.

Cyrnarel promptly curls up in the darkest corner of their cell, hand grasping where their ironbark ring should have been. Mahanon sits in the middle of his cell, expression blank. They've been told they'll only be there for two days. Whether they'll be able to escape unscathed or get any of their stuff back...

As soon as they try to shove him in the cell, Jack starts fighting, pure panic and instinct winning out over what he knows is the wisest course. Fortunately for him he narrowly avoids using his magic, instead relying on fists, feet, and even teeth.

He's lying in the floor of his cell, bleeding from a deep cut on his forehead, and waiting for the world to stop swaying around him.

Neither of the other two says a word--Mahanon's too dazed and Cyrnarel's curled up on themself, physically and mentally.

As soon as he's only marginally less dizzy Jack drags himself to his knees and leans his head against the bars, breathing harshly. The cold metal feels good against his aching head, but--that's not what he's here for. He's fumbling for a lock, a hinge, anything.

Once Cyrnarel's a little calmer, they take a quick look about their cell and grab something small and sharp from the floor before retreating back to their corner.

Mahanon remains still in the middle of his cell.

Jack's a little contorted with his hand outside the bars, but he's nothing if not determined. Face still pressed to the metal, he begins slowly feeding ice into the keyhole, shivering as the air around him grows chill.

Given time, ice can crack or warp almost anything.

One of the other prisoners takes notice, eyes wide, but says nothing. The second prisoner is asleep.

Jack puts his other finger, shakily, to his lips. The metal creaks as it warps, but he's building the ice up so slowly that it doesn't shriek or pop loudly.

"Hey, mage," the prisoner whispers once she realizes what's going on. "Help a friend out?"

"Uh huh. Shhh."

She nods and leans back. She eyes the two Dalish warily, but figures that if they're prisoners, they’ll likely not attack her.

Finally, the lock breaks, and the door swings open about an inch. Moving slowly, Jack edges out, moving to the woman's cell. "Know where--our things?"

She grins. "This isn't my first time here." She's an elf, and a dock worker--people like sticking her in the cells when there's room.

Her sticky fingers don't help much either.

"Don't let Renauld out though," she whispers, jerking her head towards the other prisoner. "Unless you're gonna chop his balls off while you're at it."

"Understand. Tell me."

"You head back up where you came in. Have to knock out whoever's up there, but don't kill them. There's a few boxes and whatnot nearby. You could get out through the front, but you might get caught again." She pats the ground. "Sewers'll get you out of the city though."

"Why not kill?"

"You kill them, guards get angry. Fewer people make it as far as the cells."

That's fair. He nods. "Get things, come back. What's yours?"

"Gone already, most like."

"Mm. Wait here."

"Can do."

Cyrnarel's a little less curled up in their cell, having realized what's going on, but Mahanon is still nonresponsive.

Jack heads up. He's gone just long enough to start making people nervous, but he returns with the three packs over his shoulders, and begins to work at the remaining three locks, leaving Renauld alone. Luckily, Renauld's a heavy sleeper.

The dock worker's happy to get out of her cell after who knows how many hours or days, and Cyrnarel tentatively leaves their cell, taking one of the packs from Jack and pulling out bandages to wrap around their arm. They help coax Mahanon out from his cell and have to physically guide him, as he won't move much on his own.

"Sewers?" the dock worker asks once they're all out.

"Yes."

She leads the way out, picking a fairly dry path. A couple hours later they exit outside the city, about a mile away.

"Thanks for that," she says, patting Jack on the shoulder. "I owe you one."

He flinches, but manages a smile. "Mm. Welcome."

She waves goodbye and heads off towards the city, leaving the three travelers on their own.

"You stink," Cyrnarel says to Jack, wrinkling their nose. They're still supporting Mahanon, who's not quite aware what's going on.

"You too."

"C'mon, let's go find a river or something."

"Mm." He nods. He hasn't noticed it, but as the adrenaline leaves his body, he's starting to shake.

"Don't fall on me, Jack," they scold. They're a little worried about him, but a bath would help them all.

"Won't fall. Never fall." That… is a lie.

"I can't carry both of you." Once upon a time they could, but not anymore. They start making their way away from the city, seeking out some fresh water.

"Won't fall," he insists, almost angrily.

"Didn't fucking say you would." Thankfully there are a number of rivers near Val Royeaux, it having been settled beside a body of water, and the closest private area is only an hour away.

True to his word, Jack doesn't fall, though he's quiet both of hand and mouth, and uncharacteristically surly-looking.

Cyrnarel drops their packs by the river, stripping themself before helping undress Mahanon. Both their bodies and clothing need washing, and they'll help wash Mahanon first. They keep their bandage on for the moment.

They'd make a comment about not drowning, but it sounds tasteless even in their mind, considering the circumstances.

Jack strips and wades into the water almost up to his shoulders before ducking under and resurfacing, shaking water from his hair.

Once Mahanon is clean, Cyrnarel towels him off and tucks him into a bedroll. They replace the ironbark ring around his neck and tenderly kiss his forehead.

They remove the bandage, looking at their arm with a mix of guilt and disgust, and wade in to wash themself.

"Okay?" Jack does not feel much like talking, but he makes himself ask anyway.

"I'm fine," they say, snappier than intended. They'd rather just forget about it all.

Jack doesn't answer, but ducks underwater again, then leaves the river to dry himself. Once he's decent he wanders a little way away from the makeshift camp.

Cyrnarel washes their and Mahanon's clothes in the river before setting them out to dry, then towels themself dry and changes into their spare clothes. Their boots are left out to dry as well. They take a brief look at Mahanon before going to find Jack, but don't  intend to travel far from camp.

He's not far. He's settled at the base of a large tree, arms around his knees, glaring into the middle distance.

Cyrnarel approaches slowly, then sits down next to him. "You alright, shem?"

He considers lying, then shakes his head. "No. Not really."

"Can I help?"

"Don't know."

"Can... can I hug you?"

He blinks, a little startled. "Yeah. That's okay."

They scoot closer to him and hesitantly wrap an arm around his waist, almost awkward with their height difference, and they lean against him. "We can't leave Mahanon alone for long, though."

"I'll be fine." He leans his head against Cyrnarel's.

"You'd better," they mumble. "Someone has to catch those shit fish."

"Don't throw a shitfit about shit fish," he says, pleased by the sound.

Cyrnarel snorts. "Fucking hate fish."

"Bird?" He's caught a bird or two.

"Not if you need rest."

"I don't."

They frown and hold him tighter. "You look exhausted."

"[I feel like I could run. For days, maybe.]"

"Adrenaline?"

"[Sort of.]" Jack lets his head thump back lightly against the tree trunk. "[Sometimes I get to feeling like everyone just wants to lock me up in some tiny, dark room. Running is like… the opposite of that.]"

"If you want to catch birds... well, better than fish." They wrinkle their nose. "Wish we could have some deer for once."

"[Me too.]"

They sigh and lean into him.

"[I could go for nug.]"

"Better than fish, at least." They pout. "Mahanon thinks they're cute."

"[They are. I got one for Leliana once, for a pet.]"

"Leliana?"

"[One of the friends who helped me stop the Blight.] Called it Schmooples."

"Poor thing."

He chuckles. "[I don't think it cared what it was called, so long as she fed it and scratched its ears.]"

"To be fair, I think halla feel the same way."

"[I like halla very much. I haven't seen one in a long time.]"

"You should see some when we visit the next clan."

"[I'd like that.]"

"I used to see halla every day," Cyrnarel says.

"[I talked to one, in the Brecilian forest.]"

"It let you talk to it?"

"[Mmhm. Her…mate was ill, I think that's what it was,]” Jack says.

"Oh." A pause. "You alright now?"

"[A little better. We can go back.]"

They nod, releasing Jack from their arm so they can stand, and they offer him a hand to stand up. "Mahanon probably hasn't moved."

He gets upright. "[He'll be okay soon, right?]"

"I think so. He's probably just shocked."

"[Understandable. I wish I could have stopped them.]"

"You can't do everything."

"[I should be able to.]" He snorts, shaking his head, knowing that's a silly thing to say.

"Even Mythal can't do everything."

"[That's the trouble with being a legend. Forget how to be human.]"

Mahanon's lying down in his bedroll when they return, blinkling lazily up at them.

"Hi," Cyrnarel says, sitting down next to him. They run a hand through his hair.

"Hi," Jack echoes, sitting on his other side.

Mahanon doesn't actively respond to them, but he relaxes a bit with both of them there and his eyes close halfway.

Cyrnarel sighs. "You don't think we could steal a tent or something, could we?"

"Maybe, I." It's less risky for Jack to be in the city on his own.

"Only if you're sneakier than you look."

"[I can try.]" He thinks for a moment. "[Maybe that woman from the jail--she said she owed me one.]"

They nod slowly. "And if we can get a bow or two as well we can hunt better. I can make arrows."

"[It's a start, at least.]"

"Food first," they say. "Mahanon should eat."

"[I'll see if I can find a couple birds.]" He gets up, ruffling Cyrnarel's hair before he goes.

They duck their head to hide their surprised blush. "You do that."

 

* * *

Jack returns with something even better than woodcocks: two ducks, one… slightly crushed, but still salvageable. "Birds!"

"Good," Cyrn says. They've set up a firepit, which is unlit, and they're sitting next to Mahanon again, his head on their lap and their fingers in his hair. "He's still... out of it."

"[Well, we've got time.]" He sits down and begins to pluck.

"Save the feathers. We'll need them if we get some bows."

He nods, patting the discarded feathers into a neater pile at his side.

Cyrnarel watches him prepare the ducks, smiling briefly at a thought, still running their fingers through Mahanon's hair.

It's quiet for a while, except for Jack's low humming as he works. Finally, he has the ducks cleaned and skewered, and sets them to roast over the fire.

"There's spices in the small pack there," Cyrnarel says, gesturing to the pack with the regular spices. They'd season the birds themself, but Mahanon's head is still in their lap.

Jack gets them out, smelling each carefully before selecting a few and rubbing them over the ducks, wiping his palms clean on the grass afterward.

"Come on, then," Cyrnarel says, trying to remove Mahanon from the bedroll so they can get him to drink something. They huff as he burrows into the bedroll in refusal.

"Hmm," Jack says.

"Yeah, you just sit and laugh, whatever," they say to Jack, attempting to remove the bedroll from Mahanon.

They make an offended sound and jerk their hand back a moment later, scowling down at the bedroll--their hand is encased in ice. "The fuck is that for?" they yell, getting up and sticking their hand above the fire. "You fucking asshole!"

"[I wasn't laughing. Don't burn yourself.]" He edges over to the bedroll, peeking inside.

Cyrnarel curses quietly to themself, waiting for the ice to melt off. It doesn't hurt, it's just really, really cold.

Mahanon looks blankly out at Jack, an almost annoyed look on his face.

"[You should come out soon. I caught ducks. It smells good.]"

He blinks, but that's it.

"Okay, later."

He blinks again, deeming Jack to not be a threat to his warmth.

"[You can't eat in there, you know. No one wants crumbs in the bedroll.]"

He stays where he is, with no intent to move.

Jack shrugs.  _ He _ will be having some duck.

Cyrnarel's gotten their hand back to normal again. "Hey, lethallin, kick him while you're over there, yeah?" they say, still holding it over the fire.

"[Missing out on my delicious dinner is kick enough.]"

"So says the guy not carrying any spices of his own."

"[It is beautiful in its simplicity,]" he says, hamming it up a bit.

"Is that what your bondmates say?"

"[Alistair's a worse cook than I am, and Zevran puts on so many spices you can't taste the food.]"

"Right, well," they say, walking back over to those two. "He still needs to drink something."

"[That he can do in bed. No crumbs.]"

"He's got to sit up for it." They nudge the bedroll with their foot.

"Mahanon. [Time to sit up. You can stay in bed.]"

Cyrnarel sighs and kneels down, pulling the bedroll cover away from Mahanon before he can cling to them. He tries to snatch them back, but Cyrnarel holds tight, and he scowls at them.

"[Don't freeze them again, it'll only take a minute.]" Jack wouldn't ordinarily be so pushy, but he's not thinking  _ just _ of Mahanon.

"Help him sit up," Cyrnarel says, still holding the blanket. "I think he's still..."

"Yeah." Jack settles himself behind Mahanon, legs splayed awkwardly to accommodate him, and puts his arms loosely around his middle.

Mahanon lets himself be put into a sitting position, still mildly annoyed at losing the bedroll but not very responsive. Cyrnarel helps him drink plenty of water from a waterskin, and then he leans back against Jack.

"Good." He tugs the bedding back up over Mahanon's legs a little, but continues just to hold him.


	16. Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters up today--check the previous one if you missed it.
> 
> Also, this chapter is why the fic is titled Elfroot!

Mahanon wakes up the next morning nestled between Cyrnarel and Jack, fully aware of himself and his surroundings once more, barring the curtain of sleepiness. This would be a little more fortunate if he weren't unreasonably turned on.

He shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to get up and wake one or both of them.

Jack grunts in his sleep and shifts a little in response, but doesn't wake.

He wonders if he can get himself off without disturbing them, but decides against it and tries to go back to sleep. It doesn't really work, leaving him half-awake for a while.

"What are you feeling?" It's Compassion, awake in Jack's sleeping mind. "It's…not pain..."

"Oh, sweet Mythal," Mahanon grumbles to himself, face turning red. "It's nothing."

"It is a… discomfort, is it not?"

"It's a normal, entirely natural discomfort."

"Yes, I think that's true. We feel it at times as well, and it does not trouble us overmuch."

"Yep." He's not sure how to talk to a spirit about this. Not that his active imagination helps much, but Compassion can't notice those thoughts, right?

"But it troubles you to speak of it?"

He pats Compassion gently on the cheek. "You'll learn."

"Oh. All right."

He goes quiet, at least somewhat comfortable snuggled up with these two. Three.

"We are all… happy," Compassion says. Not all the time, but there's definitely a different feeling in the air.

"Mm. Warm bedrolls will do that."

"We think a lot about the little hearts."

A smile splits his face, but the hint of sadness and fear is still there. "They're precious."

"We are all waiting, and we will be here whatever happens."

"Waiting?"

"For them to come."

Mahanon nods. "Now I just have to survive the months to come."

"You will. We will help. Jack thinks you will be so beautiful when you begin to grow."

"I..." He has absolutely zero idea how to respond to that except to blush. "Oh."

"We have a child we have never met. We want this to be different."

"Really? Jack has a child?"

"Yes, with the witch Morrigan. She made him swear to never follow her, and he swore it."

"Oh." It sounds painful, to have a kid one can't see, but something makes him frown. "Why would he want to see my children?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I don't see any reason for attachment." Cyrnarel shifts behind him, still asleep.

"Well, they may be ours as well. But even if they are not, we will still be glad. We like children."

"It is possible, yes."

"So, why should we not wish to see? Does it distress you?" Compassion wants to understand.

"People like to see kids in general, yes, but..." He sighs. "Usually there's a strong emotional connection that makes one want to see children, like love."

"Why should we not love children?"

"Love for the person who has children, I mean."

"Oh." Compassion frowns a little. "But we love many people."

"Romantic love, sometimes."

"We… do not know what we feel." They blink luminous eyes, looking a little uncomfortable; they're beginning to feel something else.

"Feelings can be difficult."

"Yes." They pause. "Cyrnarel is in pain." It's a little confusing; how could they have injured themselves while asleep? Perhaps they are ill.

"They usually are, I think," Mahanon says gently.

"We don't usually hear it like this," they say worriedly. "Can we fix it?"

"I don't know."

Cyrnarel's half-awake now, curling an arm around Mahanon to hold him close. They blink past Mahanon's neck to see Compassion.

"Cyrnarel?" Mahanon asks.

"Hmmm?"

"Are you ill?"

"No?" That's not a familiar morning question. Their arm does  feel a bit stiff and achey, but that's from sleeping on it. "Just tired."

"Well…" Compassion wants to insist, but they are learning. "Let us know if you need anything?" they try.

"Alright," Cyrnarel says slowly, looking at the spirit with some suspicion.

"All right." They smile. It's still an unsettling expression not entirely at home with human facial muscles.

"Since we're awake," Mahanon says, dismissing Compassion's concerns, "which one of you wants to help me with my little problem?"

Cyrnarel groans, nudging his shoulder. "Let's just get on the road, yeah?"

"I thought you did not need help, after all," Compassion says.

"I don't need help. Maybe you should ask Jack about this," Mahanon says, giving them a kiss on the forehead. Cyrnarel steps out of the bedroll, rubbing their sore arm, and starts to dress.

"Oh."

"But do tell me if you want to try it out sometime. Once you’ve learned, that is."

"All right..."

 

* * *

They stop for lunch a couple hours later, on the edge of Lake Celestine heading south from Val Royeaux. Cyrnarel drops their packs with a heavy sigh, rubbing their stiff shoulder and arm.

Compassion has faded out by now, but Jack is frowning. "[Sure you're all right?]"

"I'm fine, lethallin." They make a face at the lake. "Unless we're having fish. Rather eat sand."

"[Soon we can hunt properly.]"

"So long as Mahanon never cooks us another fox."

"Picky eaters get to make food," Mahanon says. “And that fox wasn’t  _ that _ awful.”

"[Maybe turtle, or snake,]" Jack suggests.

"Thought you said you were Ferelden, not Orlesian," Cyrnarel says. Their jaw visibly twitches a couple times for a few seconds, and they rub their cheek.

Mahanon had the foresight to gather some sticks on the way there, and now sets up a firepit. "We don't have a lot of options."

"[So? There are snakes and turtles in Ferelden.]"

"But people don't eat them."

"[Well, some people do.]"

Their jaw twitches again. "Weird people."

"[Are you upset?]" Jack frowns. Cyrn doesn't  _ sound _ upset, but they are tensing their jaw rather oddly.

"No, not upset. I think eating snakes and turtles is weird, but if you like them..." They shrug.

"Anyway, I'll go catch something that"--twitch--"isn't fish."

"[You keep--]" He demonstrates, clamping his jaw.

"Slept on my side wrong." They pick up a few things they need for hunting and head off.

Mahanon settles down to start grinding some elfroot into powder.

"Hmm." Jack sits beside him, legs crossed.

"Jack? Do me a favor?"

"Yes?"

"Teach Compassion about sex."

"…Why?"

"'You are uncomfortable, Mahanon'," he says in a mimicking voice. "'Can I help you with that discomfort, Mahanon?'"

Jack stares, going red right up to the ears. "Oh, Maker."

"I wouldn't mind if you let them... watch, however that works."

"[I might mind!]"

"Only if you want, of course!" Mahanon laughs. “Please, at least educate him.”

"Nn." He presses his hands to his burning cheeks.

Mahanon lets out another quiet laugh. "Might also want to, ah, give Compassion a talk about sharing thoughts about their own 'discomfort'."

" _ Did _ they?" He looks appalled.

"They said they feel it sometimes. I'm not entirely certain they're aware of the concept of masturbation. They only spoke to me, though."

"[They probably just feel what I feel.]" He covers his face.

"Yeah, a boner's not going to be easy to ignore, even for a spirit."

"[Are you  _ trying _ to torment me?]"

"We can always fuck now to take your mind off of things."

"[I don't know if that would help.]"

"Helps me," he says with a shrug. "And, ah... Compassion's a bit chatty sometimes."

"[Oh, is there  _ more _ ? I can't even imagine.]"

"Yes. I mean." He stops grinding the elfroot to rub the back of his neck. "I wouldn't really bring this up, since it's, ah, important, but you should know that I know, I guess. Since you're not always aware of what Compassion says or does."

"What?"

"You're a father."

"[What?]" His eyes widen. "[They told you?]"

"Yeah." He resumes grinding the elfroot. "I'm sorry you can't see your child."

"I--" Jack looks stricken. "[They're the reason I'm alive. Morrigan said the child wouldn't be harmed, and I wanted to live, so…]" He shakes his head. "[So I got her with child, the night before we slew the Archdemon. She made me swear never to seek them out, and I do not break my promises. By the time I woke after the battle…she was already gone. I--think about them all the time. I wish--]" He shakes his head again. "[Well, no matter now.]"

"I'm sorry," Mahanon says, quietly this time. He's not sure how exactly a child would save his life like this, but doesn't want to pry.

"[It's all right. I trust that Morrigan cares for them well.]" Morrigan can be cold, even cruel at times, but Jack is certain she'd do anything to avoid being like her mother.

Mahanon places a hand on his stomach. "That's good."

"[I think it would have been awkward to bond with her. She didn't like me much.]"

He laughs. "About as awkward as a Dalish bonding with a shem, sounds like."

"Hn. [Zevran was born Dalish.]"

"Really? I didn't think any Dalish went up to Antiva. He's the Antivan, right?"

"[Yes, but he wasn't born there, I don't think.]"

"Odd to move to Antiva, then."

"[Or maybe he was born there; at any rate I do not think his mother went by choice.]" Mahanon should be able to fill in the blanks.

"Ah." Antiva doesn't sound like a friendly place for a Dalish.

"[At any rate, I suppose he wasn't raised Dalish, so it doesn't count.]"

"He can still count as Dalish if he likes, I suppose."

"[I don't know if he would like.]" Jack looks pensive, and a little sad.

Mahanon shrugs. "It's up to him."

Cyrnarel returns with an armful of rabbits, jaw and left arm looking relatively tense. "It's not fish," they say, plopping down to skin them.

"[Looks good.]"

They nudge one to Jack with their foot. "You can help." Their upper arm and jaw occasionally spasm, but their hand is steady as they skin.

"[Something is wrong with you.]"

"The fuck is your problem?" they say, instantly tense and defensive..

"[Well, look.]"

Mahanon looks up from his work, keeping an eye on them both.

"You got a problem with how I look now?"

"[No, I have a problem with the fact that your arm is spasming as if you've been poisoned.]"

"My arm is fine," they insist, teeth bared. Which just makes their jaw twitching more visible.

"[Obviously not. Let us look at it. You did say you'd tell us if something was wrong, and it clearly is.]"

" _ Nothing  _ is wrong."

Mahanon carries the ground elfroot over to Cyrn, placing it before them and easing the rabbit and knife from their hands with little effort. "Mix the powder with water," he says, sitting near them.

They scowl at him but reluctantly pick up the powder and a waterskin. Mahanon nods to Jack. This way, Cyrn's arm won't move much, letting Jack take a better look, and Cyrn can feel like they're doing something.

Jack edges over to peer at the injured arm, lowering the walls on his spirit sense a little, but trying not to let Compassion come to the fore. Cyrnarel eyes him warily but lets him get close.

It's infected--not visibly, but the muscles are tense and spasming, both in their arm and jaw. Some of their other muscles are started to be affected, but it's not yet noticeable.

"Mm…" Jack hums under his breath, frowning.

"Don't make weird sounds like that, shem."

"It's infected."

"I'm not infected."

"[I said it, not you.]"

"It's my body."

"[The point is,  _ something's _ infected, and I'd like you to let me fix it.]"

"You think your spirit can fix an infection?" They don't sound convinced at all.

"[I think they had better damned well  _ try _ .]"

"And if they fuck something..." Their jaw locks for a moment. "...up?" they manage to get out.

"[Can't fuck it up much worse than not being able to open your mouth.]"

"[Fuck you,]" they sign after putting down the poultice. It's more a sign of annoyance than hostility.

"[Fuck you too. Let me try.]" Also said with no hostility.

They scowl--as much as they can with their jaw locked--but make no move to stop him.

Jack places his hands on the injured arm, and lets his walls slip further, first feeling for the extent of the infection, and then beginning--or at least trying--to burn it away.

Mahanon places the first rabbit on the fire, then sits back to watch, curious to see what happens.

Cyrnarel doesn't react at first, not sensing anything but the raw feeling of magic.

It takes some time; it's not quite the same as simply healing a wound. Jack tries to work on the muscle spasms as well, but he makes no headway, even once he's breathing harshly and dripping sweat. Finally he seals the cut, and rocks back, gasping.

Cyrnarel bites their lip when it starts to itch and hurt, and they frown at Jack when he finishes. "[You okay?]"

"[Fine. I couldn't get all the…poison out.]"

"[Poison?]"

"[It came from the infection; I took that out, so there will be no more, but what is there…I think you will be alright. Eventually.]"

"You're getting a hang of this spirit healing stuff then?" Mahanon resumes preparing lunch.

"[Perhaps. Compassion was able to help me, without taking over.]"

"I'm glad you're able to work together."

"[It was hard. I've never done anything about that before.]" He turns to Cyrnarel. "[You will need to rest, and care for yourself. Or at least, let us care for you.]"

"[I'll be fine.]"

Though he's grey-faced, he still grins, and leans close to Cyrnarel. There's a hint of steel in his eyes, and for a moment it might be easy to see how this odd man could have raised four armies and stopped a Blight with little more than a handful of misfits.

"Not  _ asking _ , kadan."

"[I don't take commands from a shem,]" they sign, trying to scowl again.

"Mmhm." Jack's…relatively sure Mahanon will back him up, though.

"Good thing Jack's our elfblooded clanmate, isn't it?"

Cyrnarel whips their head around to glare at Mahanon, then grimaces as their neck spasms, hand going up to their neck.

"Easy," Jack says.

They hiss at him, not wanting to expend the effort to try talking.

Mahanon puts the final rabbit on the fire and starts adding spices. "When you go back, try finding some spices too. If you can. It'd be easier if we could go ourselves, but..."

"[I will. What should I get?]"

"Whatever you can lift. Salt especially. Anything flavorful on top of that--paprika, cardamom, lemon... Don't worry about green plants, since there's some growing wild." He licks his lips. "First thing I'm buying when we've got coin again is sweetmeats."

Cyrnarel groans and gives him a look. They haven't had anything sweet in ages, and just the thought of them, out of reach, is a pain.

"Tent and bow first, though. I'll take the time to make some arrows while you're in town."

"[Of course.]"

 

* * *

They loop back around to Val Royeaux later that day, stopping just far enough away to not be noticed by anyone important. Cyrnarel promptly curls up in their bedroll, skipping dinner, and Mahanon lies back to watch the stars come out.

Jack doesn't press the issue--it's hard to eat dinner if your jaw is locked shut anyway, and he's probably going to need all his coaxing energy for later.

"You going back in tomorrow?" Mahanon asks.

"Mmhm. [Right about dawn, probably.]"

"Not afraid of being seen?"

"[Maybe a little before, then.]"

"The markets won't be open."

"[No, but but I'll have a decent chance of catching that dock worker.]"

He nods. "Work starts early. Oh, I almost forgot: Tea. We're out of real tea leaves." They can always brew tea from the wild plants in the area, but both of the elves love tea leaves. "Should've brought more coin with us."

"[I'll see what I can do. No promises; I don't plan on getting arrested.]"

"Yeah, just get what you can."

"[I'll try to bring back nice things.]"

He shakes his head. "Just what we need. Like you said, don't risk yourself over it. Salt and spices and tea are nice, if you can get them, but don't worry if you can't."

"[All right. I'll be careful.]"

Mahanon goes quiet, staring up at the stars.

Jack settles into a relaxed crouch between him and Cyrnarel so he can keep an eye on each of them, content to wait until it's time for him to go.

Mahanon eventually gets up and curls protectively around Cyrnarel, who's already asleep.

And Jack watches the stars. Shortly before dawn, he quietly gets up and leaves, heading for the city.

He won't be back for several hours, but he returns unhurt and with a tent on his back and a small satchel at his side.

And two bows.

When Jack returns, Cyrnarel's curled up painfully on their bedroll and there's a bird on the fire for Jack, bones of another bird placed in a neat pile by the fire. Mahanon's got a small stack of arrows next to him, finely crafted arrowheads tied to them, and he's making more.

Jack sets down his burdens and picks up the bird almost immediately. "Got good things."

Cyrnarel rolls over to face him, pain written on their face and muscles spasming, but curious to what he got.

"A tent, two bows, and more?" Mahanon asks. "Excellent. Do we need to flee?"

"[We should get moving soon, but I don't think it's urgent,]" he signs with the bird in his teeth. "[Got salt, and tea.]"

"Might need to help Cyrn walk." Cyrnarel makes a noise of protest.

"[I can. Or they can ride.]"

"Ride?"

"[Yes, I will shift into a bear.]"

Cyrnarel makes a confused sound of protest and Mahanon looks at him dubiously.

"[I would be stronger, for carrying things.]"

"You... can turn into a bear."

"[Of course.]"

"'Of course.'"

"Mmhm." He takes the bird out of his mouth and begins to eat again.

"Didn't learn that one in the Circle."

"Mm-mm."

Mahanon glances at Cyrnarel, who looks exhausted. "I don't think they like bears much."

"Oh."

"I, on the other hand, am rather fond of them," he says with a wink, almost catching himself on an arrowhead.

Jack gives him an odd look, and keeps eating.

"I thought it was a good pun," he mumbles to himself. "Can you help Cyrnarel's pain at all?"

"'m fine," Cyrnarel manages to get out, quiet and muffled through their grit teeth.

"Don't know. Can try."

"Please," Mahanon says. He can't do much for Cyrn. He's rubbed some elfroot salve on their more jumpy muscles, but isn't sure it's helped.

"Okay." Jack finishes his lunch and wipes his fingers clean before going to Cyrnarel. They scowl tiredly at him but let him approach.

"[It's frustrating to be ill, I know.]" He touches Cyrnarel's hair gently.

They're twitching under his touch and almost whimper, but don't flinch away.

Jack goes still, shutting his eyes to concentrate, and the fade-light begins to drift from his palms. And while he can't take the pain away entirely, it does subside somewhat. Their muscles continue to spasm, although the pain from the tension lessens a bit. Not enough for them to relax, but enough that they suffer less.

"Better?" There's an odd strain in Jack's voice.

"Mm." It's an affirmative sound.

"Good." He smiles.

"I'm going to get some water," Mahanon announces, picking up the stew pot. "Might catch a rabbit or two while I'm at it. Cyrn can drink the broth." He's not too fond of stew himself.

"Mm." Jack nods, trying to get into a comfortable position.

Mahanon sighs as he leaves camp. "Cyrn likes contact," he says, figuring he'll happily deal with the revenge later. "If you're not doing anything else, comfort them?" He knows Jack loves contact too, of course.

"'Kay." He lays down, and rolls in Cyrn's direction.

Their eyes follow Mahanon almost angrily, but they close their eyes not long after to doze off. They're exhausted and haven't even eaten for about a day. Jack settles next to them, aching. He does not sleep. Neither does Cyrnarel, with all their movements. At some point they lean into Jack.

Mahanon returns with the promised water and rabbits, making dinner early so the meat will be nice and flavorful and Cyrnarel can have some broth soon. Once the meat's on the fire, he starts to dig through the pack Jack brought back to see if any spices catch his eye. He's got some regular herbs and a little bit of salt in his own pack, along with the last of the special spices, but he's curious. Jack picks up his head to watch, still laying against Cyrnarel.

There's salt, tea, mustard seed, and ground red pepper. He lights up at the red pepper, pulling that out along with some of the regular spices he's got, including one of the special ones. He dumps some whole vegetables into the water, saving the spices for later, and returns to making arrows.

Once the stew's partially cooked, Mahanon fills a bowl with just liquid and wanders over to those two. "Help me feed him?"

Cyrnarel makes a disapproving, sleepy sound, probably trying to say something like "I don't need feeding" but not able to. Gently, Jack helps Cyrnarel sit up.

With the help of Jack, Mahanon's able to get most of the liquid into Cyrnarel before they start coughing. He kisses their forehead before they're laid back down.

"We can move tomorrow, if you like."

"Don't know,” Jack says. “[I don't want to tire them too much. They need rest.]"

"If you can carry them, I'd like to get back to the spot on the lake we were at yesterday."

"[All right.]"

Mahanon sleeps soundly that night while Cyrnarel sleeps fitfully between the two of them, but for once they have a tent, which is rather convenient considering the weather chose that night to rain on them. It gives Jack something to listen to while he stares at the canvas and aches. Nevertheless he draws a little more pain from Cyrnarel every few hours.

Cyrnarel awakens with some pain, but not as much as they're used to, and snuggle close to Jack when they wake. Even Mahanon's still asleep, but Cyrn can't stay asleep any longer, no matter how tired they are.

"Mm… hi," Jack whispers.

"Hh." They can't get out a full "hi".

"Good having a tent."

"Mm."

"Moving today. Sure you don't want to ride a bear?"

They make a negative sound. They'd feel jumpy, and might not be able to hold on.

"All right."

"Hi," Mahanon says sleepily, waking and wrapping an arm around Cyrnarel's waist. He kisses the back of Cyrn's neck.

It's almost an ideal morning, except for Cyrnarel's pain.

Jack sits up, stretching and wincing. "[Be nice to be back by the lake, soon.]"

Mahanon, not being the observant type, misses the wince. "Be nice for Cyrn to feel better." Cyrn makes a sound in response.

"[Soon, I hope. It's not as bad as it could have been.]"

"Thanks to your help."

He blushes a little, glancing away. "[Well. I'm learning.]"

Mahanon starts whispering in elvish to Cyrnarel to help them feel a little better.

Jack extricates himself and begins to dress, moving a little stiffly, though not too much worse than usual.

Mahanon helps Cyrnarel dress, taking care to dress them quickly, though he can’t resist showing himself off a bit when it comes to dressing himself after. 

 

Cyrnarel can't stand, and they seem a little dizzy on top of that.

"[Mahanon, you will take the tent down?]" Jack needs to figure out how exactly he's going to carry Cyrnarel.

"Of course." He helps Cyrnarel out of the tent once they're both dressed before starting to take it down.

Jack gathers their things into neat, practiced packs, waiting only for the tent to be attached to one of them. Then he glances at Cyrnarel. Being carried in-arms is likely undignified, but being slung over a shoulder is probably worse. Of course he'll probably have to switch from one to the other anyway.

Cyrnarel's eyes droop as they slouch while sitting on the ground. Honestly, at this point they don't care what happens, they're just exhausted and can't stop twitching.

Jack scoops them up carefully, cradling them to his chest so there's not too much weight just on his arms. Cyrnarel's lightweight, comparatively to other people his size, but that doesn't mean it's not still quite a load.

They lean into his chest, silently thankful for the contact. He's warm and pretty soft, despite the armor.

Mahanon grabs his packs and ruffles Cyrn's hair before leading the way out.

It's far from an ideal situation for any of them, and Jack hates that Cyrnarel is in pain; he's not particularly thrilled that  _ he's _ in pain either, but still… he can't help but smile a little. They drift off into another half sleep in his arms, as they walk.

 

* * *

It takes only a few quiet hours to reach the lake campsite again.

Jack is nevertheless exhausted by this time, and sinks to the ground almost as soon as they've arrived, ready to give his trembling arms and legs a rest. He doesn't put Cyrnarel down, though, not wanting to jar them, and keeps them held close.

Mahanon notices this, at least, and drops a bedroll before helping Cyrnarel out of Jack's hands and onto the roll. "You two alright?" he asks.

"Tired. Stiff."

"Well, we've got time to rest, and we can go for a swim in the lake later."

"Mm. Mmhm." Carefully Jack stretches his arms out, rubbing first one then the other to get stiff spots and cramps out.

Mahanon sits down next to Cyrnarel, hugging them to him.

"Long walk." Jack stretches out across the ground, cool moss against his cheek. "Tired."

"Cyrn's not that heavy, at least."

Cyrnarel almost makes a sound in response, but they're not sure whether to agree or disagree.

"[Easier to carry things on your back.]"

They make a disgusted sound at that.

"Exactly," Jack says.

They continue to eye him distastefully.

"What?"

"How about you two nap while I prepare food?" Mahanon suggests. "No fish, I promise."

"[I don't know what I did,]" Jack signs bemusedly.

Mahanon gives him a confused look. "What?"

"[They're upset with me.]" He looks a little wounded, but puts his head back down, shutting his eyes. Here is a fine place to nap.

"No? Lie down, anyway--your neck will get stiff like that."

Cyrnarel's able to lie down on the bedroll by themself, at least.

"I'm lying," Jack says.

"The bedroll's better for you."

"'S fine."

"Alright." He won't deal with these two today.

Jack grunts and shifts into a more comfortable position. Cyrnarel falls asleep again, easier this time.

 

* * *

Mahanon's made stew for lunch, but when he tries waking Cyrnarel, they don't stir. Jack at least is only half asleep, though he hasn't moved and doesn't particularly want to. After a few minutes of Cyrnarel still not waking, Mahanon curls up next to them, distressed.

Jack rolls over and glances at them, then quickly gets up and goes to them, frowning. "[What is it?]"

"They won't wake up," Mahanon says, voice flat and quiet.

"Nn. [Let me look.]"

Mahanon stays where he is, lying beside them. Jack leans over them and lets down the walls to his spirit-sense.

Their breathing is a little fast and temperature a little low, as usual, but their blood is dangerously lacking in sugar and their brain is not working adequately.

"[They need to eat.]" Of course, how do you feed someone who's passed out? Jack has no idea.

"But they have to wake up."

"Cold water?"

He shakes his head. "I tried a bit of lightning and that didn't work."

He chews the inside of his lip. "[I… don't know.]"

Mahanon frowns. "How would feeding wake them up?"

"Sugar." Don't ask Jack how that works. He's not a physician, just some guy with a spirit.

"Help him sit up, then," Mahanon orders, pushing himself up and grabbing a bowl of liquid from the stew on the fire.

Jack props Cyrnarel up, carefully holding their head and neck upright but a little to one side so they won't choke.

He returns with the bowl and a spoon. "Massage their throat so they'll swallow it, okay?"

"Okay."

He slowly feeds Cyrnarel half the bowl. They don't wake up, but hopefully he's done something helpful. "Let them lie down again," he says, trying not to sound defeated.

He does, keeping Cyrn's head to one side, softly brushing their hair away from their face. "[They'll be fine,]" he says, but he's looking shaken himself. They have to be fine, they have to be.

"We'll give them more in an hour or so." Mahanon doesn't want to talk right now, just sit and watch the water.

"Okay."

He feeds Cyrn again an hour later, still with no response, and lies on the bedroll beside them sadly.

Jack knows he  _ ought _ to be strong for both of them--for all of them--but instead he just turns away, hugging his knees, to hide his wet eyes. Mahanon doesn't mind. He's a little angry--unreasonably so--because Jack is upset about his lover. Mostly he just feels worried.

Eventually, Jack gets up and wades into the shallows of the lake, close enough that he can see if Mahanon needs him, far enough for privacy.

Mahanon dozes a bit, not quite falling asleep nor forgetting his anxiety, not with Cyrnarel twitching beside him.

Jack eventually comes back ashore though he still keeps to himself, pacing the camp and showing no signs of resting.

Mahanon forces himself to get up, foregoing a meal himself but getting more broth for Cyrnarel, who remains unconscious. And Jack helps him once more, without a word.

 

* * *

Cyrnarel wakes early the next morning, blinking their eyes open to see Jack in front of them.

He's sitting, cross-legged and awake but nearly in a meditative state, eyes blank and breathing slow. He doesn't notice at first.

Mahanon's hugging them from behind, but they can't see him, of course. Their muscles are starting to relax a little today.

They keep blinking at Jack.

Eventually Jack stirs a little. He's been sitting a vigil of sorts, but even so he has to shift every few hours to avoid cramps. He sees Cyrnarel and his eyes go wide. "[Cyrnarel?]"

They nod their head a bit. Their mouth's a bit dry and that irritates them, but they're awake.

His hands start to shake as he lowers them, and he has to swallow hard to find his voice. "Mahanon!"

Mahanon sits up quickly, fire in his hands as he glances around everywhere but where Cyrnarel is. Once he realizes there's no threat, he relaxes and lets the fire dissipate, but looks confusedly at Jack.

"Awake," he says hoarsely.

Mahanon looks down at Cyrn slowly, then grins widely when they blink up at him. He pulls them into a tight hug and kisses them, and they start to grumble to themself.

Jack smiles a little, and backs off. They ought to have some time alone. He goes in search of breakfast.

They thankfully feel better as they wake up, muscles still spasming and aching but less so. One comment about a stiff cock somehow ends up in an actual cock stiffening, and when Jack returns he accidentally finds himself walking in on his two friends having fairly quiet, gentle sex.

Jack glances away quickly. He has plenty to do anyway; having been reminded by yesterday's conversations, he took bear shape and went for a couple of climbs, and a couple of roots through the underbrush.

He's human again now, a little disheveled, and carrying pockets full of duck eggs, one slightly mangled rabbit, a branch of tiny, sweet berries, and an absolutely massive hunk of honeycomb.

Cyrnarel doesn't notice at first, facing away from where Jack came back, but Mahanon's underneath him and notices. He starts snickering and Cyrnarel makes some offended comments in elvish, presumably about their performance, but then Jack's name is mentioned.

They look behind them, squawk, pull out, and, with some difficulty, pull the bedroll covers out from underneath both of them to hide their entire body under, barely covering Mahanon's lower body as well.

Jack continues to pretend that he saw nothing; he has quite enough to deal with, with all this honeycomb. He liberates a bowl for it, then sets to work stoking the fire, licking his fingers all the while. (The truth is, he already has a bellyful of eggs, berries, _ and _ honey from his bear adventures, but he can always eat more, and Cyrn and Mahanon need breakfast.)

Mahanon is not entirely happy with the interruption, and after a quick discussion he joins Cyrnarel under the blanket, repositioning himself so his head is where Cyrnarel's is not.

Mahanon emerges first, walking straight over to the fire as he stretches, not at all bothered by the mess on his thighs. Or lips. "Hi," he says, waggling his eyebrows as he checks out Jack licking his fingers.

Jack gives him a brief glance. "Hi."

"You do seem to have a bear's tastes after all."

"[Well, I was going to come back, but I was already in bear-shape and I smelled the hive...]"

"You really  _ can _ turn into a bear?"

"[Did you think I was joking?]"

Mahanon laughs. "I wasn't sure what to think."

"[Well--yes, I can turn into a bear. Morrigan taught me.]"

Recognition flickers across his face. "Well, I'm going to go bathe--care to join me?"

"[I ought to start cooking the rabbit, and the eggs.]"

"Alright then." He looks back at the bedroll. "Cyrn! You need a bath too!" A single hand peeks out of the blankets with a select finger raised towards him.

Jack snorts. "[Get me a pot of water, would you?]"

Mahanon gathers the stew pot, eyeing the honey as he does so.

Jack begins to skin the rabbit, avoiding his gaze.

Cyrnarel awkwardly stays hidden away in their bedroll. They slept in this bedroll with Jack. They may share it with him again. They do not want to walk out in front of him stark naked and sticky.

Jack moves on to cleaning the rabbit, then butchering it, now humming a little under his breath. His head is humming with lack of sleep, and he's full of emotions he doesn't know how to process, but… well, it's better than last night.

Eventually Cyrn pokes their head out to see what Jacks up to.

Once they're certain he's not looking their way, they bolt out of the bedroll and out of sight in seconds, though they almost trip over their own feet in the process.

Neither of the two worry about Jack for a good couple of hours.

* * *

 

Jack seems determined to dissolve into the lake, as he doesn't return. Two hours is a long time to stay in the water, though, so he eventually finds a rock.

Cyrnarel seeks out Jack alone, just to make sure he's okay. He's been acting a little weird.

Jack has by now mostly air-dried, though he's still nude and his hair is damp and sticking up at angles. He's crouched on a rock, and Cyrnarel will have to wade to reach him though he's not far in.

Cyrnarel takes a look, sees Jack is uninjured, and turns around without a word.

Jack looks up to see their retreating back, and blinks slowly. Swallowing, he turns back to his original position, looking out at the water.

A couple hours later, he returns to find Cyrnarel curled up near the fire and Mahanon sleeping in the tent. Jack’s dressed himself in his light, basic clothes, a tunic and breeches. He's barefoot, and the hems of his breeches are a little damp. He stops by Cyrnarel, crouching by the fire to see if they're awake.

They are wide awake, if still exhausted, and they look back at him.

"…Hi,” Cyrnarel says.

"Hi." He swallows, and settles into a sitting position beside them.

"Hmm?" They frown at him. They like him there, close by, but he's almost worrying them with how he's acting today. Maybe he feels put off. Jealous over Mahanon. Or maybe he doesn't like to think of Cyrnarel as a sexual being, ill as they are. Not just today, but in general; despite their morning activities, they’ve done little all day and Mahanon’s done nothing but fuss over them.

Was the honey a treat for Mahanon? A bribe of some sort?

"I’m… glad you're okay," Jack says.

_ Is he lying? _ Cyrnarel wonders.

"Course I'm fine, shem. I'm a Dalish hunter."

"You keep saying that."

"No reason I wouldn't be fine."

"Mahanon didn't say anything,” Jack says.

"What about?"

"Nothing--never mind."

All this is doing is making Cyrnarel’s worries worse. Jack being jealous, Mahanon not telling him something... He subconsciously curls in on himself a bit more.

"You almost  _ died _ ." Jack’s voice cracks.

"Nothing attacked us." The events of the previous day are a bit fuzzy, but they figure they just passed out from the pain or something. Nothing too bad. "'M fine."

"[You wouldn't wake up, you wouldn't--you wouldn't wake up, and your blood was all wrong, and you wouldn't wake up, we had to spoon-feed you, you wouldn't wake up and we didn't know if you were  _ going _ to wake up--]" His signing is easy enough to understand at first, but as he goes on his hands begin to shake hard enough that it's difficult to make out clear words.

They reach out and rub his knee reassuringly. "Like I said, I'm fine." They don't like how things sound, so they'll just deny it.

Jack makes a small sound in his throat and buries his face in his hands, beginning to cry. Not a little, but full-on sobbing. He's trying to choke it back, but without success.

Cyrnarel frowns at Jack, then pulls one of the human’s hands down to his hair. Jack likes hair, right?

"Don't worry about shit that's not important."

"It is important," he chokes, gripping Cyrnarel's hair, though not hard enough to hurt. "You're important, and I'm tired--"

He lets out a huff of air. "I'm fine, Jack. Nothing bads going to happen to me."

"Don't want you to die."

"Unless some dragon decided to swoop down and eat me, I'm not dying. You don't have to worry."

"I don't know. I'm tired. I don't know."

"Sleep?" He suggests. Jack was already up when he woke, after all.

"Not that kind."

"Then what kind?"

"Don't know,” Jack says. "Scared."

"Scared like you get scared at night?"

"Don't know." He sniffs, hard. "Everything I say, everything I do--always wrong."

"Why d'you say that?"

"I always upset you."

"No, you don't." And he doesn't want to make Jack feel bad either.

"Been saying wrong thing… whole life."

Cyrnarel rubs Jack’s knee again. "No. You're fine, lethallin."

"I can never help."

He sits up. "You help fine."

"[I never know when I'm supposed to say something or keep my mouth shut. I never have. It's useless.]"

He shakes his head. "You're a good man and you help people. You don't think Compassion chose you for nothing, do you?"

"[Sometimes.]"

Cyrnarel leans in and kisses Jack gently on the lips. "You're fine," he whispers against Jack’s lips, then leans back, almost startled with himself.

Jack gasps a little, lips parting. He tastes like salt and his wet lashes brush Cyrnarel's cheek, but Cyrn's mouth is sweet. When he pulls back, Jack is left staring, breathless. After a moment, his tongue darts out, licking his lips. He's lost for words.

No response. Bad decision.

"I'll... Go gather some elfroot," Cyrnarel says, turning away. Never too much elfroot.

"Wait."

They hesitate and look at him warily, ready to bolt.

"[What…what does it mean?]"

"Elfroot," they decide, turning to leave again.

"Cyrnarel!"

"What?" they snap, body tense.

"Please… tell me?" Tears are beginning to pour down his face again.

It would help if they themself knew what they'd meant with it. They don't know what to say, but they make themself relax and they pull him into a hug, gently stroking his hair.

It's enough information for the moment. It tells Jack that this wasn't… some kind of accident. After a moment, he relaxes against Cyrnarel. He's a little hunched, but his face rests against their shoulder, and after a little while the sobbing hitch in his breath calms and he's just breathing.

"It means you're not as bad as you think," they decide.

"Thanks."

They kiss him again, because, well, he was fine with it before and kisses are nice. Their lips linger longer on his, though they're shaky, worried about rejection.

Jack, being a little less stunned this time, kisses them back, an arm slipping around their back.

Cyrnarel makes a surprised noise at Jack returning the kiss, opening their mouth a little.

And Jack draws them close, as absorbed in the contact as he is in the kiss (not that he minds the kiss, certainly). "Should get you honey more often."

"Hm." They nuzzle his neck, too shy to want to look at him.

"You're sweet."

"Very funny."

"Ha-ha. Funny because it's two ways."

"I'm not a sweet person," Cyrnarel says.

"Says you."

"Says everyone."

"Except me."

They move to face him, resting their foreheads together. "Why?" They look genuinely confused.

"Because. I know things."

"Now you're just sounding weird."

"Know you didn't want me to cry," Jack says softly.

"Stuff it," they say, not quite scowling.

"Hmm."

They kiss him one more time. "Elfroot," they mumble.

"Elfroot?" Why so much elfroot.

"It needs gathering." Not really, but their anxiety is getting the better of them.

"Okay." He leans in once more--just one more kiss, very light.

...and they pull him into a deeper kiss, tongue and all, because if they're going to run they might as well make it worth it.

"Mmh…" Jack feels it's a little unfair for Cyrnarel to do this and then go hunting for elfroot, but… well, it's hard to complain. It's nice. A little different from kissing Mahanon, but nice.

They pull back from him with a nervous, giddy smile, and finally detach them self and start to leave.

Jack gives them an awkward half-wave, red-faced and looking a little giddy himself.

 

* * *

Mahanon comes out from the tent a couple hours later, well rested and drowsy.

Jack is still sitting there, looking… well, the best term for it is 'moonstruck.'

"Good evening," Mahanon says, plopping down next to him. "Did you want me to make that stew you got the water for?" Another moment, and "Where's Cyrn?"

"Elfroot," Jack says, hoping his flush isn't too noticeable. "Yeah. Stew."

"You two didn't have another fight, did you?"

"No! No..."

He's not sure whether or not he believes Jack, but doesn't push.

"[I was upset. They were… kind.]"

Mahanon smiles. "I'm glad. Are they doing better today?"

"[They seem much better. Still tired, but…]"

"Better is good." He frowns. "We have a lot of elfroot already though."

"[I think they just wanted to get away for a little while.]"

His eyebrows knit together in concern. "Are you sure they're alright?"

"[I--I think so. Yes.]"

"I'll start on this stew, then. You prepare the vegetables, I find the meat?"

"Got it." Beat. "Mahanon?"

"Yes, lethallin?"

"[How did you know Cyrnarel wanted to be with you?]"

He grins and laughs. "They told me, and I feigned ignorance to what they meant, and so they performed Dalish courting customs. Giving certain gifts and whatnot." He shrugs. "Not that I didn't believe them, but they didn't seem the type of person who would like... Well, someone like me. They were a complete mess, though. Blushing, stuttering, all of that."

"Oh." That doesn't really help all that much. After all, Jack isn't Dalish, and he wasn't told, just kissed.

Mahanon gives him a curious look. "Did you think we'd jump straight to sex or something?"

"[With you, maybe.]"

"Like I said, I didn't really expect them to stay interested in me."

"[But they did, of course. What did  _ you _ do? To… let them know?]"

"I accidentally called them vhenan while I was still pretending not to notice their courting." His cheeks turn pink. "But then I reciprocated gifts, we spent time together like picnics, and... well. My prank gift of a strap on went down rather marvelously, actually."

"Oh." Jack reddens.

"Could always get one for you too," he says with a wink.

"[What, so I can have two--no, forget it, forget I said anything.]"

He blinks, then snorts. "No, to fuck  _ you _ with."

"[Well then it would be your strap on, really, not mine.]"

"It would be yours the same way my--look, Jack, sharing toys is unhealthy." He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"[Oh, I see. Why are we talking about this?]"

He leans into Jack’s personal space. "I fuck Cyrn with one. I can fuck you with one too."

"[Let's think about that when you have the coin to get one.]"

"Spoilsport," he says. "But we can do things without those, too..."

Cyrnarel chooses that moment to reappear, having gathered an unnecessary amount of elfroot and drops it by the tent.

"[I'm…sure we can.]" He flushes pink again as Cyrnarel reappears.

They sit down next to Mahanon as Mahanon stands up.

"Need meat for stew," Mahanon says. "Are you trying to get Jack to smoke elfroot or something?"

Cyrnarel makes a tired sound. However they feel today, they're still recovering. 

"Apparently," Jack says.

"It's not as fun as it's made out to be," Mahanon says as he picks up one of the bows and some arrows. Cyrnarel watches him leave, a little anxious to be alone with Jack again.

"[I guess I'll find out.]" This is a joke. He has no intention of smoking elfroot.

Cyrn scowls at him. "I'm not watching over you while you get high."

"[I don't really want to smoke elf root.]"

"Hm." They avoid looking at him and keep some distance between them.

"[Besides… already tried that at the Circle.]"

That gets a snicker out of them.

"[And just about anything else you can think of.]"

They open their mouth to say something then think better of it, burying the thought somewhere. Jack tilts his head, but says nothing. He can give them a little time. It wasn't anything important regardless, and they lie down tiredly on the grass.

"Bedroll?" Jack asks.

"Nn." They aren't going to fall asleep. As long as Jack’s nearby that's enough for them.

"More comfortable."

"Don't care." Movement is less comfortable.

"Okay."

Jack lying next to them would be more comfortable, actually, but they're not going to ask.

Jack scoots closer at least. He's still has a few vegetables to cut, but since Cyrnarel doesn't move away, he stops with his thigh nearly touching Cyrnarel's head. Cyrnarel scoots a little closer too, resting their head on his leg. Not that they'd admit to it,  but it's nice.

And so, quite naturally, between vegetables, Jack rests his hand in their hair, one or two slow strokes, and then he picks up the knife and gets back to work.

Cyrnarel dozes off again that day, appearing relaxed for the first time in a week or so.

Seeing someone sleep calmly is calming of itself, and once he's through with the vegetables, Jack sits still, smiling a little. He just strokes their hair, looking into the fire and waiting for Mahanon to return. Sometime, he's going to want to know where this is going, or if it's going anywhere. What it means and where it stands.

But for now, this is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> To read more of this fic, check out the google folder [here](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0Bw93DJ6kKxGnb2Y0SlRTOTNXZnc). It contains all the currently edited and published parts of the fic, plus a good deal more content. It is not fully edited, so scenes may be missing, timestamps may still remain, and dialogue tags may not be updated. 
> 
> My (Lynx) skype tag is roy.h7 and I am open to friend requests if you tell me who you are/how you found me.


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